


Winged Assassins

by Supdudes95



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Assassin John, Established Relationship, Help, Human Experimentation, Hurt John Watson, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Past, Tattoos, Wingfic, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2019-10-27 16:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Supdudes95/pseuds/Supdudes95
Summary: John has secrets. He's a retired assassin, one of the best. He wanted to turn his life around, which is why he joined the military. The rest is history.A few years after John meets Sherlock, the consulting detective gets a case that might change John's life. He tries his best to hide his secrets, but is it enough?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first story I've written in this fandom. So, welcome to my first try, and probably my last. I just wanted to write something that's been stuck in my head for a year... 
> 
> I apologise for any grammar/spelling mistakes. I'm writing this on my phone, AND I do not speak english as my first language.

You could almost taste the heavy atmosphere. John had been certain their friendship was real, but at the moment? He wanted to scream. Cry. Maybe even sink into the floor and disappear. He wanted to be crushed into tiny pieces and be taken by the wind as far away as possible. But that's what had happened already, hadn't it? Sherlock knew his secret. The tall man with the curly, black hair and sharp, clever eyes. For a moment John had believed they could be more. Only for a moment before Sherlock had spun him around and pushed him to the ground.

Which was the reason why he was laying on the cold floor, face down with tears threatening to fall. The feeling of betrayal making his chest ache. How could he have been so stupid?

 

  
Everything had started after John came home from Afghanistan. He knew his skills were good. Both as a doctor, and behind the aim point on a rifle. He had wanted to change his past life. If anyone asked him what he did before his service in the military, he would lie. The truth would be too weird and complicated for a normal person. He couldn't just tell someone he had been one of the most well known assassins in the world. The other one was his past partner in crime, whom he hadn't seen in years. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever see her again.

They had been a team. The two of them against the world. Then it ended. John changed his view on killing people for money, while she continued their work. When John signed up to join the fight in Afghanistan, his sister went off radar.

In the military, John had been called a guardian angel. The nickname was fitting if you saw his back. If someone asked how he got his tattoos, he would tell them it was a drunken night some years ago. That was also a lie. He got them when he was just a newborn baby at a lab somewhere he couldn't remember, where he was raised together with his sister. They weren't related by blood. He had a biological sister, too, but he hadn't contacted her before later in his life.

Then he met his new friend, Sherlock Holmes. The self pronounced consulting detective. A man who could see your entire life by one look. The only person John had believed would know instantly about his past life. To his surprise, Sherlock had only been able to tell about his military career and his biological sister.

Then the Case happened. The one where John knew he was screwed from the moment he heard about it. Why wouldn't he be? The most observant man in the world was looking for _him._

 

With his hands folded under his chin, Sherlock probably enjoyed the silence in the living room. The early morning sun shimmered through the halfway closed curtains.

Suddenly, the phone on the coffee table made a shrill beep and the screen flashed brightly with the new message. Sherlock's hand reached out at once and grabbed the device. He scanned the text before sitting up abruptly. John watched as the man flung himself off the sofa in a hurry. Not a moment later, John followed the man down the stairs and out of 221 B Baker Street. Before he could even utter a word, they were in a cab and on their way to New Scotland Yard.

“Want to fill me in?” John asked, breaking the silence. Sherlock didn't even look at him.

“Serial killer,” the detective muttered and continued to run his fingers over the letters on the screen. John nodded. After the years of living with each other, they had helped on quite a lot of the Yard's cases. Serial killers were some of the most interesting, at least that's what Sherlock thought. John on the other hand? He lived for the adrenalin and action. It reminded him a bit of his earlier years. Shots fired, fleeing through the air, and his heart beating in his ears.

They arrived at the New Scotland Yard and made their way through the building. As usual, the people around them stared and whispered when they walked by. They were a common sight. Sherlock led the way, and John followed in his tracks. As always. When they entered the familiar office, they were greeted by a stressed Detective Inspector. Greg Lestrade looked up when John cleared his throat.

“A serial killer?” John tried to look at the pictures on the desk from his position behind Sherlock. Lestrade nodded.

“Seems like it,” the DI sighed and sat down behind the desk. The case had been wearing him out, it seemed.

Sherlock strode forwards and looked through the files.

“Not at all,” the consulting detective stared at a picture from one of the crime scenes. John could see the man on the pavement. No blood from anywhere except the head.

“Why do you say that?” Lestrade raised a brow.

“Because, there isn't any emotion. They were killed by an assassin. The time period between the murders are too close together, and they are impersonal. A serial killer would need a ‘cooling off' period. They are driven by a need to kill. This is strictly professional, detached and...” Sherlock stopped when he came to a picture of one of the victims' head. “Do you have more pictures of the victims’ heads?”

Lestrade gave him four more. Sherlock stared at them. All five victims had the exact same wound. A single bullet wound to the top of the head. No exit wound. Not an uncommon wound for an assassination, but the way the bullet had hit, caught John's attention. Sherlock saw it, too.

“That's why this case is so frustrating,” Lestrade explained. “All have the same headshot wound, but according to the forensics team, they were shot from straight above. According to witnesses, they saw a shadow flying over them and then the victim was laying dead on the ground.”

John felt it was getting harder to breathe. The method was too familiar to be a coincidence. He got the feeling he knew exactly how the murder happened. Not only had he done it before, he taught it to his partner, many years ago.

“I remembered something like this happened about 11 years ago,” Lestrade continued. “It's the same method. Headshots from straight above, like the killer was flying over them.”

“Did they ever figure out who it was?” John tried to sound normal. Ask a question, seem interested, control the panic. He got a concerned glance from Sherlock, reminding him that the man didn't know about his past, and that he had to get it together before he had a full on panic attack. That would ruin him for sure.

Lestrade shook his head. “We had our best men on that case. They did figure out that there were more than one killer, and that they were known as the Birds of Prey. They never figured out why they were called this in the criminal world, but they had a hypothesis that it was because of the angle on the bullet the victims were hit by. I have the files here if you want them.”

Sherlock ripped the files out of the DI's hand and opened them. John wanted to take the files from him and burn them. He remembered that case. They had tried to hunt his sister and him down, never succeeding, but close enough to get almost all the information Sherlock would need to solve the case.

“It says there was a rumour the assassins could fly,” he noted and continued to scan through the information. John hoped for the love of God there wasn't any more rumours in there that could make Sherlock understand. John had had to take down one of his closest friends while the guy had been interrogated. So much for trusting anyone.

“Yeah, but it seems unlikely,” Lestrade took the files. “We guessed the guy who told us meant they used one of those flight suits to glide between buildings. It also says they had wings. Like actual wings.”

John felt his heart beat in his throat. The silence was stretching towards unbearable while Sherlock analysed the new information.

“Maybe they did?” Sherlock stated, earning a surprised choking sound from John. The consulting detective didn't seem to notice, thankfully.

“You mean real wings with feathers, like birds?” Lestrade frowned. Just saying it out loud sounded stupid. If he just knew...

“No, you idiot,” Sherlock paused. John held his breath. He hoped that by some miracle Sherlock hadn't figured out the one thing that would break the code. The thing that would help them in the search for both his old partner and himself. The problem was that the answer was so immensely simple that anyone would be able to think of it. “It's a tattoo.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It's been a while.   
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!

His last hope was out the window the moment Sherlock had said it. A tattoo. Like the one on his back. The one that had been there for as long as he could remember. The wings. It was surprising Sherlock hadn’t noticed them yet, really.

“I believe there won’t be a problem finding him,” Sherlock smirked. The obvious glee of the new puzzle bright on his face. Not that it was a difficult one. Talk with the right people, and you would get all the information you needed.

John wondered what would happen if Sherlock ever saw his wings. Would the detective just ignore it, or would he just send him off to prison the moment he found out. John had a bad feeling it would be the latter. Or worse; he could be strapped down to the coffee table and cut open as one of Sherlock’s science experiments. What the consulting detective didn’t know, he would find out, any means necessary.

“I’ll take the case.”

John knew he had to do something to mislead Sherlock. A science experiment had to be the number one thing he never wanted to be. Not again. The man had already used him as a test subject on multiple occasions already. What if Sherlock cut his wings off? He couldn’t let that happen.

 

They were just about to leave when one of the police officers came charging into the office. Sherlock had just gotten his coat on, and John was moments away from being hit by the door slamming open. Thankful for his reflexes, he jumped out of the way just as the door came rushing towards him.

“There’s been another one, sir!” the officer shouted and threw some papers onto Lestrade’s desk. John and Sherlock halted and turned to listen to the information that was being given. Lestrade turned his attention to the two men in the doorway. 

“I’m guessing you’re coming with us, then?” Lestrade sighed at the consulting detective’s rather devilish grin. John tried to hide his terror as well as he could. He hoped his hesitance didn’t attract Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock didn’t seem to have noticed as he turned on his heels and stormed out into the hallway. John followed closely behind him. A heavy feeling draped itself over him like a thick blanket. A constant weight on his shoulder. He could almost feel the panic attack lurking in the back of his mind as he kept up with his best friend. The thoughts of what would happen to him if the man ever found out his secrets buzzed in his mind. Over and over they would play different scenarios and alternative endings to his eventual reveal.

_“Get yourself together, John,”_ John thought to himself. He wouldn’t give up without a fight. If he ever did get found out, he would try to reason with the detective. He could be of use to the cases. A bird’s eye view on a scene could be useful, right? Or maybe it would make it easier to catch runners?

Who was he kidding? Sherlock didn’t need him. He was useless. He just stated the obvious and trailed after the guy with the plan. He would make John go to jail for sure if he ever found out. “ _When_ he found out,” he corrected himself. The only thing he could do was delay the inevitable. He had to make sure it would take longer, if only to be able to spend more time with his best friend before either being caught or fleeing.

“John, we don’t have all day, get in the cab!”

John jumped. He realised that he was standing still in front of an open cab door. Way to go, Watson. Great work at hiding your secrets from the smartest man in the world. He definitely won’t notice you just standing there, staring emptily into space.

“John, come on! This is getting ridiculous,” Sherlock had his nose in his phone. His attention had been caught by the case. John might be safe after all.

He almost threw himself into the cab and shut the door behind him. The traffic was low in the late morning. The rush hour was over for now, and people were at work or in their homes, minding their own business. No one knew about the corpse laying in an alley, except of course the poor teenagers who had witnessed the murder. The two young boys that had been draped in shock blankets after the sight of their drug dealer being shot dead while handing them what they payed for. The same teenagers that had been paralysed with fear and not even a minute later were being accused for having killed a man.

Sherlock and John entered the crime scene as one of the boys cried out in anger at the statements of the investigators. John already knew who was responsible for the dead man on the ground.

“It wasn’t us!” one of the boys growled at the officer in front of them. The other boy stood silent. His eyes glazed over with shock and unshed tears.

“Of course, it was you,” the officer stated. “Do you think I’m stupid, boy?”

The boy was about to answer when Sherlock cut him off.

“Well, you are stupid,” he raised an eyebrow at the man. “Why would they kill their drug dealer? They didn’t have a reason to kill him, therefore it couldn’t have been them.”

“What are you on about?” The officer glared at the consulting detective.

“Why else would they meet a man in an alley when other kids would be in school?”

The man looked slightly baffled. John wanted to enjoy the moment, listen to the deductions and just feel like he usually did when Sherlock worked. Sadly, his amazement was pushed down by the thought of being so close to where his former partner had just finished one of her jobs.

They continued over to the body after telling the officer to leave the kids alone. He had been a bit reluctant, but complied in the end. The first thing that struck John was how clean the shot was. It had been a while since he’d seen anything like it. It would be difficult to steer the consulting detective in the wrong direction, but he had to try. He would do anything to be able to spend more time with his friend, even if that thing ended up making them wind up on a wild goose chase.

“It could just be some guy wanting to end drug dealing to children,” John said and regretted it the moment the words left his lips. Not only was that statement highly unlikely, but it was stupid enough to grab Sherlock attention.

It was the first of many “stupid mistakes” that would end up making Sherlock even more suspicious of him than before. He could always tell him it was because of a virus, and that he wasn’t feeling well, but in the end, Sherlock knew him well enough to know when he was lying or hiding something.  

John wasn’t proud of his deception skills. He was actually pretty embarrassed by them. Who would have known that one of the best assassins in the world had no idea how to keep his own secrets?

Not only did Sherlock start to notice his weird behaviour. He also began to use his underground network to find all the information he could on the “Birds of prey”. The fact that Sherlock hadn’t figured him out yet was incredible.

 

He’d taken a quick shower after running around all day, chasing a suspect that ended up being nothing but a waste of time. He had started becoming more nervous around the flat, always locking the door behind him to make sure Sherlock wouldn’t see his tattoos. He opened the door to the hallway, making sure his jumper hid his back as well as it could. What he didn’t expect was to walk into a warm body when exiting the bathroom.

“You’re jumpier than normal,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John who suddenly felt his tattoos burn. “And you seem more… distant.”

“What makes you say that?” John felt like an idiot for the fifth time that day. It had been a week since they were at the crime scene with the drug dealer.  There had been four more killings after the incident. Of course, John had said something idiotic at every single scene, making the consulting detective turn his attention on him, which was something he really didn’t want. Only today, he had said so many unlikely things that he was sure his flatmate had figured out his secret.

“Since this assassin showed up, you’ve constantly, if only subconsciously kept coming up with the same unlikely scenarios as Anderson would come up with.”

“I told you,” John sighed. “I’ve just not been feeling well the past few days.”

“You’re lying,” Sherlock leaned closer as John took a step back. He felt uncomfortable being questioned like this. Who wouldn’t if someone walked straight into your personal space and interrogated you? “Tell me what it is, John. You know I hate not knowing. I will figure it out eventually, anyway.”

Oh, the doctor knew. He knew it so well, he almost wanted to give in and just show the detective right away. But he couldn’t take the chance that he could throw him in jail the moment his jumper hit the ground.

John sighed.

“Can we please focus on the case, instead of me? I’ll…” He hesitated. “I’ll tell you when you’ve solved this case.”

Sherlock squinted at him.

“Is it about the weight you’ve gained?” He tilted his head in question. John couldn’t help but think of it as kind of cute. What? He could say that about his best friend, right?

“What?”

“You keep tugging at your jumpers, acting uncomfortable, being distant,” Sherlock continued to stare at him. “Making mistakes that are very unusual for you, John. So, I ask you, since you’ve clearly gained a few pounds the last year; is this because of your weight.”

John didn’t know if he should laugh or cry. Maybe both.

He was about to answer when Sherlock’s phone went off. The detective snapped to attention and pulled the device up from his pocket and read through the message he’d received.

“Anything of interest?” John smiled as his friend marched over to his chair and slumped down in it. He'd been saved by the bell for now.

“I got more information about the birds of prey,” Sherlock explained and continued to read through the text. “It says that they were quite active about ten years ago before one of them disappeared. It’s not known what happened to him, but sources suggest that he’s dead. The other one is supposedly still active.”

The light feeling of relief that had washed over him a minute ago was gone. Fear once again settled in his stomach and he wanted to puke. Sherlock continued:

“They were widely known for their ability to kill their targets from above. No one saw them coming, and there were never any clues as of who these two people were. Only the ones that had been in contact with them directly knew anything about them.”

“Is there anything about why they’re called the 'birds of prey'?” John figured it was best to just do as he always did.

“It says they have wing tattoos on their backs. Not angel wings, but extremely detailed birdwings. Someone saw them once, just briefly, but it was like watching real wings folded against their backs. One has the wings of a great horned owl, the other of a red-tailed hawk, which earned them their names Owl and Hawk. How original.”

The sarcasm made John’s heart fall a bit. Their names had always been Owl and Hawk. It was their names during the first years of their lives. Then John had started to become tired of the constant killing, and instead wanted to help people, which is how he ended up changing his name and getting into the military as an army doctor. He got the best of both worlds, you could say.

“Does it say anything about how to contact them?” John sat down in his own chair as Sherlock read through the message, memorising every detail he could get from it.

“No, but there is a name of someone who knows the Owl,” the detective smiled at the screen. There was a silence as John waited for him to continue. When he didn’t, he sighed and asked:

“Who?”

“Irene Adler.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John visit Irene who's supposed to have information about the assassins.

“Irene Adler?” John felt like pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘The Woman’ had never been on his top ten list of people he liked to spend time with, so the fact that Sherlock most certainly would drag him off to the dominatrix was not a nice one.  He’d rather spend an evening with Mycroft. He knew Sherlock found her fascinating, but after the last few years, he couldn’t help but dislike her even more. He couldn’t find a reason for his feelings towards her, but every time he would come near her, or that dreaded text alert went off, his chest would tighten and his throat close up.

“John, I’m starting to get worried about you, now,” Sherlock sighed and got up from the chair, already on his way to get his coat. “You’ve been acting different from the moment this case started, and I’m starting to suspect you know something I don’t. Which is pointless, given the reason I’ll figure it out anyway. What are you hiding from me?”

John groaned. Letting his head slump towards his chest in defeat.

“I’ve already told you I’d tell you when this case is over,” he said as he went to grab his own jacket. “I won’t tell you unless you solve this thing.”

“I’ll probably solve it by tonight, so what’s the point in keeping it from me?”

“It’s reassurance,” John smiled even though he felt dead inside. He wanted to leave. Get out while he still could.

“Why?”

Sherlock took a few steps closer to him. His eyes roamed over him, trying to find out what his secret was.

“That’s something you’ll have to figure out,” John smiled and rushed down the stairs. He stepped out onto the pavement outside the flat. Sherlock came to a stop beside him.

“You know you can tell me anything, John,” he mumbled as he flagged down a cab for them. John let out a breath and felt the anger rise up in his throat.

“No, not this,” he growled out through gritted teeth. “Playing on my emotions won’t work either.”

Before Sherlock could say anything else, he got into the cab and slammed the door shut behind him. The surprise on the detective’s face was definitely worth it.

 

A short trip later and they were standing in front of Irene’s front doors, ringing the doorbell. Her assistant opened for them and asked them to wait in the living room. Irene joined them shortly after, thankfully wearing a black dress.

“You need my assistance?” she smirked as she sat down in her armchair by the window. Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Yes, we want some information,” he explained, making the dominatrix smile wider.

“About a client of mine?”

“It’s about an assassin going by the name of ‘Owl’,” Sherlock said. “He’s been quite busy the last week.”

“And you want me to tell you if I’ve ever met this person?” Irene’s expression emitted a dangerous feeling of secrecy. Her eyes flickered to John for a millisecond before returning to Sherlocks icy stare.

“If that’s not too much to ask,” he responded. Irene started to laugh. Her head tilted slightly backwards as if this was hilarious to her. John suddenly realised that it probably was hysterical to her. Especially if she knew he was Owl’s old partner in crime.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, what can I say?” she giggled after her laughter had died down a bit. “ _She_ is a good friend of mine.”

Sherlock seemed to analyse this new information.

“She acts as if she owns the nights,” Irene said slowly. “Her wings are stunning, my goodness you should see them. She only showed them to me once, but I’ll never forget the details. What a night that was. Those huge feathers built to carry a bird through the air.”

“You talk about them as if they were real feathers,” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“They are real, Mr. Holmes,” Irene grinned devilishly.

“Made of ink, I’m sure.”

“Are you, though? What do you think Dr Watson?”

Their attention shifted to John who had tried to disappear into the couch while the two had been talking. She definitely knew.

“I don’t know,” he said sheepishly and tried to get his heartbeat under control.

“Don’t bother with him, Miss Adler,” Sherlock glanced over at her. He continued with an irritated sneer: “He’s not been feeling too well this week.”

John felt his heart drop at his vicious statement. He wanted to tell him the truth, but he just couldn’t.

“I can see that,” the dominatrix huffed.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about her?” John asked, trying to get the focus off of him, earning him an eyeroll from Sherlock. “Anything about her appearance, personality, usual places she likes to hang out?”

“I don’t like to rat out my friends, doctor,” Irene got up from the chair and walked over to the window. She paused for a second. “But I do hear rooftops is one of the places people see her the most. She enjoys the best views of the city.”

John noticed Sherlock pulling out his phone to send a text. Probably to Lestrade to make him have someone stake out the tallest buildings in London. He was just about to put the phone back in his pocket when he got a message. The detective sighed heavily before checking the display. He sighed even more when he read the text.

“I have to go,” he sent off another text before getting on his feet. “I’ll see you later, John. Thanks for having us, miss Adler.”

John looked at the detective confused. He was used to being left behind, but the lack of an explanation was slightly unusual. The question lingered on his tongue as the man disappeared into the hallway. Soon after the front door slammed shut.

John hurried over to the window and got a glimpse of the black car that he associated with Mycroft. He began to think about what the older Holmes brother had trouble with this time, but then he realised he was left alone with Irene.

He turned to see her staring at him.

“You know about me, don’t you,” he said, exasperated.

“Yes,” Irene continued to stare intently at him.

“You think Sherlock knows?”

“No,” she walked over to the armchair again and sat down, crossing her legs. “I’m not saying he’ll never find out,” she continued. “But he doesn’t know at the moment. I certainly won’t tell him. He’s oblivious.”

John walked over to the couch and let out a breath of relief as he fell into the cushions.

“Yeah, you’re totally safe unless Mycroft says anything,” Irene grinned. A shiver ran down John’s spine.

“Oh my God,” he whispered and let his hands cover his eyes.

“Relax, John,” The Woman reassured. “Sherlock loves you. He won’t kick you out when he finds out. He’ll be delighted, I’m sure.”

“Yes, he would think he acquired a new guinea pig, how nice for him.”

“If that happens, why don’t you just call Owl? I know she misses you,” Irene moved to sit beside him, letting a hand rub comfortingly over his back.

“I don’t have a way to contact her,” John mumbled. The frustration of the situation was starting to get to him.

“Yes, you do,” the dominatrix pulled out a piece of paper, wrote down something and gave the note to him.

“You have her number?” he blinked disbelievingly.

“Of course, I do,” she chuckled. “She’s a friend of mine, remember?” she leaned into his side for a moment. “Just call her. I’m sure she’ll be on standby if you feel like something’s about to happen.”

“That’s really nice of you, thank you,” John was slightly flabbergasted. Irene just smiled.

“My pleasure. Now, I’ve been dying to know what your wings look like,” she grabbed John’s arm and dragged him to his feet.

“What?”

“You heard me, doctor,” she snickered.

“I haven’t used them for years,” John frowned and tried to get Irene to let go of his arm. When she didn’t, he gave up. “I’m not even sure they work anymore.”

“Maybe this is your chance to test it out? Sherlock’s busy, there’re no cameras in here that I know of, so no one would see you.”

John thought it over. Irene even started to pull on his jumper.

“Come on! I want to see them!” she continued to push.

“Fine! Jesus, just give me some space,” John glared at her, ignoring her happy squeal. She let go of him and took a couple of steps back. He grabbed the hem of the jumper and pulled it quickly over his head, letting the fabric fall to the floor.

“I want to see the tattoos first,” the dominatrix walked behind him. John supressed the urge to roll his eyes. There was a stunned silence for a moment before he felt cold fingers trace the outline of his wings.

“They are amazing,” Irene breathed out in awe. There was another moment of silence before she continued. “That gunshot wound of yours is in a lucky spot. Right above the curve where the wing folds.”

“I’m aware. There’s a reason I’m a bit scared to unfold them,” John mumbled and took a deep breath, preparing for the next part. He knew how painful it could be after only a month of not unfolding them, but almost ten years, and a gunshot wound? That’s something else, entirely.

Irene went to face him again.

“You won’t know until you’ve tried,” she smiled.

“Oh, I have quite the idea of how awful it can be,” John closed his eyes as he concentrated. The feeling of skin moving out of the way made him groan. This was normally uncomfortable when the skin was used to it, but after so many years of not letting his wings stretch out, and at the same time his gunshot wound making the skin stiffer and even more sore, the agony was almost unbearable. His knees gave out and he collapsed to the floor. Burning hot pain rushing through him as the wings continued to press against the skin. He could hear Irene gasp somewhere above him, but he was too focused on holding back his screams to notice. He could understand her reaction, though. He knew he’d been curious as of what it actually looked like when they unfolded their wings, so after a look in the mirror when he was fifteen, he knew it wasn’t a pleasant sight. The reason the tattoos everyone saw looked so real and detailed, was that the feathers were, in fact, real. They were a small part of the wings. The rest was hidden underneath a thin layer of extra skin. There were actually two holes in their backs in the shape of folded wings that made it look like tattoos. When they unfolded their wings, the skin would be pulled back as the wings emerged, and then settle against the base of them, making the second layer of skin invisible. The stretching hurt like a bitch even though they unfolded them several times a day, so this was like someone was cutting him open with a rusty old knife.

It took him a while to control his breathing after finally having his wings out after such a long time. They were laying heavily out on either side of him as he continued to try to catch his breath. There was still a dull ache in the abused skin around the feathers.

“Are you okay?” A weak voice asked from somewhere around him. He looked up and met worried eyes. Irene looked as if she’d just witnessed the most disturbing thing in the world, which it probably was.

“I’m guessing you haven’t seen them being unfolded before?” John tried to lift his wings off the ground, groaning as pain shot through the skin surrounding them.

“No…” Irene trailed off. Her voice becoming steadily more confident as she got over the initial shock. “Owl already had them out when I looked at hers.”

“The pain gets worse when you haven’t used them in a while,” John explained. “The more you do it, the more flexible the skin gets, and the less pain you feel.”

“And the gunshot wound? How does that feel?”

“I don’t know,” John stumbled to his feet, grabbing the armchair to help him up. “I can’t really feel any difference at the moment. I’m guessing it will feel different when the skin softens a bit if I start using them more. How does it look?”

Irene went closer and cringed.

“Bloody, that’s for sure,” she stretched out a hand to touch it, but seemed to stop herself. “Nothing too serious,” she added quickly to reassure him. “Just a crack in the skin. It’ll heal in no time at all. You should probably be a bit more careful the next time you unfold your wings, though. Give it some more time to stretch, if you know what I mean.”

The suggestive tone made John blush furiously as he spluttered, trying to come up with something to say. When he couldn’t, he nodded and pulled his wings tight against his back.

“Oh, you’re adorable,” the dominatrix laughed and ruffled his hair, making John growl and pull away from her. “Are they working properly?” She grinned at him.

John rolled his shoulders, squinting slightly at the sting, before stretching the wings out as far as they could go. They were bigger than he remembered. The gorgeous white and red feathers on the inside of his wings gleamed in the light. They really needed some preening, that was obvious. He plucked a loose feather and tried to beat his wings a couple of times.

“They wouldn’t keep me up for long,” John said after a couple of minutes of trying them out. “I’ve lost a lot of the muscles I once had, and I’m heavier. If I start training them up again, it won’t take long before I’m able to fly for a few minutes,” he continued to move them around, now that the pain slowly started to subside.

“Are you going to, then?” Irene watched with wonder as John folded the wings behind his back.

“I should, but I’m not sure if I will,” he sighed and started to play with the feather he’s plucked. “There’s too much risk trying to train them at Baker Street. Sherlock could notice, and I really don’t want to find out what would happen if he saw them. I don’t think I could handle him hating me for all the things I’ve done.”

The woman smiled knowingly.

“Is that doubt I see, doctor?”

“What?” The confusion shone clear on John’s face.

“Oh, you are!” Irene straightened up and placed a hand on her hip.

“Care to fill me in?”

“The doctor in love with the detective,” she looked delighted as John’s expression turned to that of horror.

“How many times have I told you-“

“You don’t have to hide it, Dr Watson,” Irene smiled softly at him. “It’s perfectly okay. You might not be gay, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be gay for Sherlock Holmes.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Oh, I think you know exactly what I mean.”

John held her gaze as the realisation hit him. She was right. He loved Sherlock. More than he would ever be able to admit to the detective. And if he ever figured out John’s secret, their life would change. John would probably never be able to see the man again. He would never be able to spend time with his best friend if he ever found out he was an old assassin. Oh, God, what was he going to do? He couldn’t live without the brilliant deductions, or the annoying experiments, or the times they ended up sitting in silence for hours just enjoying each other’s company, or the intelligent eyes he was so used to watch searching for answers hidden for everyone else. The man was his life, and if he lost him, it would be the end of him.

“Oh, shit, you’re right! What am I going to do?” John sank down to the floor and let his wings curl around him like a feathery shield. He closed his eyes. The thought of losing Sherlock made this case even worse now that he figured out he loved him.

“Tell him,” Irene crouched down in front of him. “The worst that could happen is that he rejects you. You should probably do it before he finds out about your old occupation, though.”

John glared at her.

“Not helping,” he whispered and tucked the wings tighter around him.

“Hey,” she started, grabbing one of the wings, lifting it out of the way so she could see his face. “I think he’d love you either way. Even if you were an assassin, it’s not like you run around killing people at the present, right?” When John didn’t respond, she continued. “He loves you John. I’ve seen it. He wouldn’t care whatever happened in the past.”

“You really think so?” he chanced a glance at her, looking into her gentle eyes. His hope was starting to build.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t,” Irene said as she let go of the wing. “Okay, it’s getting late, doctor. I’m sure Mr. Holmes will be home soon.”

John nodded and crawled out of his little wing fort. He got up and stretched out his wings one last time before folding them into the skin again, making sure he took his time. The pain was still terrible, but not as bad as it was earlier. The gunshot wound made it a bit more difficult because of the stiffness. The blood had dried, too, making it even less flexible.

Irene picked up his jumper from the floor and handed it to him when he’d gotten them in. He took it gratefully and quickly put it on. His skin was cold after being exposed in the cool room. Irene led him to the front doors and let him out.

“Good luck, doctor,” she gave him a soft smile as he walked over the porch. “And say hi to Owl for me if you call her.”

“I will, miss Adler,” John felt a lot better. He’d never thought Irene would be this helpful. He looked down at the feather he’d plucked out again before handing it over to the dominatrix. “Here,” he said. “As a thank you.”

“You really want me to have it?” she picked it gently out of his fingers. “Thank you so much, and call me Irene,” she giggled and retreated into the house before John could answer her. He ended up staring after her for a few seconds before being brought out of his state by a car driving down the road. He was about to call a cab when he decided against it and started the long walk back to Baker Street. The cold evening felt refreshing after the last turn of events. He just wondered what would happen the next time he met Sherlock.

After walking a few blocks down he pulled out his phone and the note he got from Irene. He entered the number and hit call before rising the device up to his ear. Someone answered after three rings.

“Hello?” the voice was so familiar it hurt. He’d missed her more than he’d realised.

“Hi,” John started. “Long time, no see.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Hawk.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a chat with Mycroft.

Sherlock sighed as the car pulled to a stop in front of the familiar building. Just walking through the silent halls made his skin crawl. He had a bad feeling about this meeting. He had learned to trust his instincts, but this time he really wanted to forget about them. His curiosity, however, made him continue forward towards the room where his brother waited.

He opened the door to the office and walked over to the desk where his brother sat.

“I believe you know why I brought you here?” Mycroft asked as he opened a drawer.

“For once, I don’t think it’s for a case,” Sherlock glanced at his brother. Mycroft nodded and pulled out a file.

“You could say that,” he started and flipped through the documents. “I thought you’d like to see some old files I have on your dear friend Dr Watson.”

“What’s this about?”

“He might be of interest on your current case.”

Sherlock frowned and reached out to take the files from Mycroft. The man held them out of reach.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that John has an unnatural background, brother mine.”

“Well, he grew up in an abusive home. It’s not _that_ abnormal, but-“

“No, Sherlock. It seems like your deductions have been wrong about him.”

Mycroft gave him the file and leaned against the desk.

“As you know, John served as an army doctor in Afghanistan,” Mycroft started to explain, matching his brother’s intense stare. “He had a nickname, would you know? They called him Angel.”

Sherlock felt his pulse spike. Dread crept up from the bottom of his stomach and attached itself to his spine. This was about his case. He was trying to hunt down the mysterious birds of prey. One of the two assassins had mysteriously disappeared about ten years ago, while the other had continued their work.

“When asked about it, the other soldiers mentioned tattoos on his back. They were described as the most detailed tattoos they’d ever seen. Two folded wings,” Mycroft paused, probably for dramatic effect. “Someone said they looked exactly like the wings of a red-tailed hawk.”

Sherlock tried to hide his slightly elevated breathing pattern and glanced down at the closed files in his hands.

“Even if he has got tattoos, it doesn’t mean he’s the missing assassin,” Sherlock tried to find a way to doubt his brother’s statements. The problem was that the more he thought about it, the more it made sense.

“Don’t be daft,” Mycroft rolled his eyes and gestured to the documents. “Everything we know about John Watson is in there. It pains me to say I didn’t think about the possibility that he would be _the_ Hawk when I first read through them.”

“You’re getting slow, brother dearest,” Sherlock mocked, but without the normal punch to it. He hesitated before opening the file. There were a few pictures of John and his fellow team members, and some from his earlier days at St. Bart’s hospital. Nothing seemed as if he was hiding anything at all. The text was what got to him. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“There isn’t any,” Mycroft frowned and scratched his temple before flattening his hair down. “All information on ‘John Watson’ started as he attended St. Bart’s. I’ve checked his record, his birth certificate and the schools he went to. There is absolutely nothing about him. John Watson didn’t exist until ten years ago.”

Sherlock closed the files and handed them back to Mycroft. He didn’t want to look at them anymore. He’d seen enough. He didn’t want to believe what his brother was telling him, but the facts were there. Still he needed to find out a way to prove it. If he could just see John’s back.

The memory of John pulling on his jumper resurfaced. It had happened on multiple occasions the last week. Not only that, but he seemed to be more distant and paranoid. He locked doors he normally wouldn’t. He walked different routes to avoid Sherlock as much as possible, and he almost never turned his back on him. John had been facing him straight on a lot more than usual.

“I’m expecting you to do the right thing when you’re able to prove his guilt,” Mycroft dragged him out of his thoughts. Sherlock decided not to meet his gaze. His emotions were running wild. For once he hoped Mycroft was toying with him, even though it was unlikely.

“I’ll…” Sherlock cursed his own unsure voice. “I’ll see what I can do.”

He turned on his heel and stalked out the door. The thought of getting John arrested made him want to hurl. The doctor was his best friend. He knew everyone expected him to do the right thing, being a man working for the side of the angels. Angels. John had been called an angel in his army days. He’d saved lives, not taken them. Or maybe he had, he just never said much about it. He _had_ killed the cab driver when Sherlock was about to eat that pill. A shot with such precision it made even the Yard’s best snipers look like amateurs. It was obvious he’d had a lot of training, but if that was because of the army, or something else, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t have enough data on it.

He walked out into the cool evening air and over to the car that was waiting for him. He continued to think about his friend the whole way back to Baker Street. Was he even his friend? One of his only friends were an assassin. Maybe it was a coincidence?

He stopped in the stairs up to their flat.

The universe was rarely so lazy. Maybe John was trying to get to someone through him? Unlikely. What if he’d been sent to spy on him after all? More likely, but still farfetched. Maybe it was just a coincidence?

He continued to walk up to the flat. He stepped into the living room and flung himself onto the couch, not bothering to take off his coat.

John should have been home by now. Why wasn’t he home? He’d normally sit in his chair reading something on the computer, or writing his blog by now. Not to mention his clear uneasiness around Irene made it highly improbable that he was still at her place, which left the question: Where the hell is he?

Sherlock placed an arm over his eyes to shield out the light from the setting sun outside the window.

How was he even going to get a look at John’s back without making it seem weird. He could say it was for a case, but considering their circumstances, John would probably just find an excuse to leave. He could sneak into his room and peek, but even that was a little not good. He still respected his privacy. Sometimes. Okay, not so often, but that seemed like a wrong thing to do, even for him. Maybe he could just ask him? Nah, too boring.

And what would he do if he actually did have wings on his back? Giving him to the police seemed wrong, but not saying anything would be worse if John ever got caught. Mycroft would know if he didn’t get him arrested. Which would make it even better to not tell anyone, to be honest.

When he finally let his arm down, the sun was gone, leaving the flat in the dark except for the lamp next to John’s chair. The man was sitting with his legs crossed and a book in his hands. Sherlock stared at him. He looked tired, but there was something different about him. A tiny hint of pain flickering in his expression every time he moved, and something else. A fondness played at his lips.

Sherlock felt his heart beat faster the moment John noticed him. The doctor smiled at him and put down his book.

“I see you’re back from your mind palace?” John grinned even wider at the confused expression on the detective’s face.

“How long was I gone?” Sherlock looked at his watch. It was half past eleven.

“It’s been a few hours since I got home to find you like that, so It’s hard to tell,” John checked his own watch. “What did Mycroft want?”

Sherlock waved him off and sat up. There was nothing indicating that John had been to a bar. Where had he been? “Nothing of importance. Just wanting me to look at another case, as usual.”

John nodded and leaned back in his chair. Sherlock noticed he was staring out the window at something outside. The soft light from the lamp made him look like a mystery. A mystery Sherlock got an urge to solve. The doctor looked dangerous. Who would have thought the cuddly man in the jumpers could possibly be a killing machine. One of the most wanted assassins in the world at one point. There was something in his gaze that turned serious the longer he stared out into the cold night. He was entirely lost in his thoughts, and Sherlock couldn’t help but find it mesmerizing.

He knew how he was going to see John’s back. It was clear as day.

Why hadn’t he thought about it before?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, that happened!

“Yeah, and I might need you on stand-by tonight.”

John stopped at the crosswalk and waited patiently for the cars to stop. He hurried over, giving a small wave to the driver and continued down the side walk. He’d been talking to Owl the whole way back to Baker Street, and he was almost at the front door.

“Give me one minute,” the woman on the other end of the line chuckled. “Okay, look up.”

John smiled and squinted up towards the roof of the building he was walking past. The sun had set, and the street lights made it difficult to see anything behind them. Then, small flashes of white light blinked on the edge of the roof. He rolled his eyes.

“Are you Morse-coding me?” John giggled and tried to distinguish the different combinations of long and short flashes.

“Maybe?” The light started to move as if the person holding the flashlight was walking. “You needed me to stake out at your place tonight? Is there a threat or something you want me to look for?”

John sighed and watched as the flashlight reached the end of the building. It disappeared for a few seconds before reappearing on the next roof. He frowned as he read the message that was being flashed at him.

“L-O-O-K O-U-T? Look out for what?” He crashed into a garbage bin and almost fell over. The laughter that came from the rooftop echoed through the phone in his hand.

“Look out, as in see where you’re going. Now, about tonight; are you sure something is going to happen? Won’t you be able to just fly off if something happens?”

John scratched the back of his head. After he’d left her to join the military, he’d lost contact with her all together. He hadn’t seen or heard from her in years, which also meant she didn’t know about his injuries.

“I don’t think I’d be able to get very far, to be honest,” he said, flinching slightly as the ragged edge of where his skin had teared open towards his gunshot wound got caught in the wool of his jumper.

“What, are you okay? You didn’t,” she paused. “Lose them, did you?”

“No, they’re fine,” John said quickly. “It’s just that I got shot in the shoulder a few years back, and I haven’t used my wings since I saw you last time.”

The sharp intake of breath made him aware she knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Sounds like someone should use them a bit more, wouldn’t you think?”

“I actually tried them out today.”

“And how did that go?” Owl sounded sceptical.

“The skin between the wing and the scar tore,” John looked up at the building rooftops just in time to see a huge shadow of a wing stretch out over the street below to keep the person owning them from falling off the edge. He missed being up above the city, running over rooftops and soaring through the sky.

“And I’m hoping you’re going to fix it as soon as possible?”

“I just need to get home first,” The doctor moved his wounded shoulder to try and feel how damaged it was. Judging by what Irene had said, it was quite clean, not too much jagged edges.

“Yes, and while you do that, you still haven’t told me what I’m supposed to be prepared for.”

John hadn’t really thought about what he wanted her to do. He just had a seriously awful feeling that something bad was going to happen, and if he was right, he’d need somewhere to escape. Had his wings been working, if all else failed, he’d be able to go through the window. If Owl was outside the window, she’d probably be able to catch him.

“I just have this nagging feeling in the back of my mind that something is going to happen,” he mumbled. “We’ve been trying to hunt you down for a week, and Sherlock’s getting frustrated. I just think he might do something stupid.”

There was silence on the other end for a moment.

“You’re trying to hunt me down?” Owl sounded slightly offended. “And you want me to come to your flat,” she continued. “In case something happens.”

“I know it sound suspicious, but I really need you. He’s hunting me, too, and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep hiding this from him.”

Another silence.

“Please, I don’t know what he’ll do if he finds out. I could end up at a lab table somewhere, or just be arrested. I could even become his personal lab rat.”

“Fine, I’ll help you,” Owl sighed. “But if he tries to catch me, I’ll shoot him.”

“Nothing fatal, please.”

“I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try my best for your sake.”

“Thank you,” John grinned up at the dark figure balancing over the rooftops.

“Don’t mention it,” the assassin jumped to another building. John felt a lot safer now that he knew she had his back if anything happened.

They continued their talk until John was standing outside the flat. He looked over his shoulder at the opposite building where he saw his old partner as a silhouette against the moonlight.  

He went into the building and hesitated at the bottom of the stairs. He felt terrified of what would meet him when he got into the flat. He was pretty sure the detective would be home by now, and if he was, he’d have to face him to not seem too out of character.

He moved slowly up the stairs and opened the door to the living room. He tried to figure out where the detective could be. He was not in his chair, at least. He moved further into the room. Not in the kitchen either. He turned around and almost expected Sherlock to be standing directly behind him, but instead, the man was laying in a heap on the couch with an arm covering his eyes. Thank God he wasn’t awake. Or maybe he was?

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly, walking a bit closer. The detective didn’t move.

John wondered if he’d be able to sneak up to his room and go to sleep after all, but something made him stay. Instead he grabbed the book he had planned to finish, but didn’t have the time to read with his busy schedule. He sent a quick message to Owl to tell her to come back in a few hours. Sherlock probably wouldn’t move for a while anyway, and since he was the likely cause of his uneasy feeling, it wouldn’t make a difference until he came back to the world of the living.

He got a reply almost immediately, just telling him that she would tell him when she got back. He sighed and for the first time in a week, he felt his shoulders relax. It lasted about a minute until the tear got stuck in his jumper again. He let out a small hiss before hurrying into the bathroom and got the first aid kit. He found an extra mirror so it would be easier to see what he was doing. He sighed as he saw the blood. It wasn’t that bad, he’d definitely had worse, but it was in a difficult position. He’d have to bend his arm at an awkward angle if he was to reach it. For a moment he even considered to just clean it and let it be, but decided against it.

It took an effort, but after five really unprofessional stitches it looked a lot better. It would heal as long as he gave it time.

He looked down at the jumper he’d been wearing. It was bloody, but not too bad. It’d probably look even more suspicious if he changed his jumper right after he’d gotten home.

He picked it up and pulled it over his head again, cringing as the stiches scratched against the fabric. He let a hand run carefully down to where his wings began. It had been a while since he actually felt his feathers. It was a weird sensation. The feathers were tightly pressed into the pockets, which meant they looked almost 2D through the holes, but if you touched them, it was something else entirely. You could feel all the individual feathers against your fingertips.

John closed his eyes for a moment, trying to figure out what to do when Sherlock woke up. He should tell him about his feelings. The sooner the better, right? If he didn’t, he might never do it. Even if Sherlock rejected him, he’d feel better just staying friends. Maybe he could just tell him that having a crush on the man was the thing he’d been hiding from him, and then the detective would never know about his wings? Sherlock would probably find out after a while, but then this case would be finished, and he wouldn’t have to worry about it, anyway.

He walked back into the living room and turned on the lamp beside his chair. He sat down and started to read in his book, waiting for the detective to move. John had a plan, and he would stick to that plan, no matter what. What if it went well, anyway? What if they ended up becoming something greater? The thought alone made John smile.

It took an hour before the man on the couch stirred. John turned to look at him and was met with a confused looking Sherlock. He seemed entirely out of it, to be honest. It was adorable.

“I see you’re back from your mind palace?” He grinned when Sherlock blinked owlishly.

“How long was I gone?” The detective glanced down at his wrist. John mirrored his action and discovered it was half past eleven.

“It’s been a few hours since I got home to find you like that, so it’s hard to tell. What did Mycroft want?”

Sherlock waved him off and sat up. John resisted the urge to walk over and kiss him right there and then.

“Nothing of importance. Just wanting to look at another case, as usual,” the detective mumbled. John nodded and leaned back against his chair. He let his gaze move to the window. Owl should be back any minute. He couldn’t do this unless she was there. What if something went wrong? What if-

He was startled out of his thoughts by Sherlock leaning over him. He met the detective’s analysing stare.

“Sherlock?” his voice died in his throat at the calculating eyes that roamed over him.

“John,” the man countered before smirking at him. John didn’t really know what to say. The detective had his hands resting on the armrests, effectively trapping him in the chair.

“There is something I need to tell you,” John whispered as he pressed himself against the back of the chair. “I think-“

Sherlock’s lips were on his. They were even softer than he’d imagined. And yes, he had imagined it. And if he didn’t kiss him back soon, Sherlock would probably stop, which would be really sad, because he wanted this so bad.

John grabbed the detectives coat, trying to get the man even closer. There was too much space between them. He needed this. He had been needing this for quite some time, actually. Now he finally had it. Or did he?

“Sherlock?” He panted as they finally parted for air. “What-“ He didn’t have time to respond before the man was crushing their lips together again. He let his tongue trace the detective’s lips, and the man parted them more than willingly letting John explore his mouth.

Before John knew it, Sherlock dragged him to his feet. The doctor just held on for dear life, not wanting to let go just in case this was just some fantasy.

Sherlock pushed him backwards until he felt the wall press against his back, making the stitches get stuck in his jumper. It brought him back to reality for less than a second before Sherlock found his throat. He tried to say something, but the only sound he seemed to be able to make was tiny whimpers as the detective’s tongue left wet trails from his shoulder to his jaw, switching between sucking and biting on his skin.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, making John even more breathless. His mind was so foggy in fact that he didn’t even notice the warm hands trailing against the hem of his jumper. Not even when said hands hooked themselves under the hem and started sliding slowly up his torso.

His thoughts returned to him when his bare skin met the cold wall behind him. By then it was too late. Way too late. Sherlock had already grabbed his naked shoulders harshly and started to pull him sideways. John’s legs were kicked out from under him, and he was falling.

It was surprising, really, how long it could feel before you hit the floor. He had lots of time to feel his heart shatter. Not only that, but the feeling of betrayal flared through his body, making the pain even worse.

The moment he hit the floor; he knew it was over. The life in 221B Baker Street would never be the same. John had let his feelings take control over the situation, and he ended up getting burned.

“I knew it…” Sherlock growled from above him. John wanted to sink down through the floor boards, or maybe just turn to dust and be taken by the wind. Shatter just like his heart had the moment he realised the detective had played him. Seduced him to find out his secret. “I can’t believe I’ve been so blind.”

John could hear the detective pacing. He didn’t dare get up from the ground before he had his emotions under control. That was until he heard the cocking of a gun. He froze.

“Get up, John, if that’s even your name,” Sherlock sneered. John slowly got to his feet and turned to face the detective. The man was holding his phone up to his ear, making what was left of John’s heart drop, leaving an empty feeling in his chest. “Lestrade, bring some of your less incompetent officers and come to Baker Street. I’ve got one of the birds.”

John continued to stare at the gun. He didn’t dare meet the detective’s eyes. He was sure if he did, he’d not be able to hold back the tears. God, he just wanted to get out of there. Leave while he had the chance. Before Lestrade and his men came to take him away.

His phone lit up on the small table beside his chair catching his attention. He’d put it on soundless so he wouldn’t disturb Sherlock while he was in his mind palace. He was able to read the message before the screen turned back. When he looked out the window, he could see Owl standing on the rooftop opposite of their, no Sherlock’s flat. She seemed to have noticed his situation and made a small gesture before taking off into the air. John understood.

He looked back at Sherlock who seemed to be focused on his conversation with Lestrade. He was going to miss his life in this flat. Solving cases and trailing murderers down alleyways. Being by Sherlocks side. Drinking tea in the morning, sitting in silence and enjoying each other’s company. It had come to an end.

He started to back away towards the window closest to him, which was the one behind Sherlock’s chair. The movement seemed to grab the detective’s attention. John straightened his posture trying to feel like the heartbreak and humiliation didn’t bother him at all. He tried to get rid of all his emotions, and he succeeded surprisingly well. The only thing that was left was a smile. Not a happy smile, but the one people normally would call a dangerous one. There was no real emotion behind it. Owl had once commented on it being terrifying given the right circumstances.

“Stop smiling, John,” Sherlock glared at him. That was the moment John found the courage to meet the detective’s eyes. It was fun seeing the detective falter for a moment.

“I think I’m going to leave now,” John said thoughtfully as he continued backing towards the window.

“Don’t be stupid. You won’t get away by jumping out the window. You’ll get stunned the moment you hit the ground, maybe even fracture bones or something. You definitely won’t be able to run.”

“Who said anything about hitting the ground?”

And with that, John turned and ran for it. He knew he had to get his wings out if Owl was going to be able to lift him successfully, so he prepared himself for the pain. He bit back the scream as he unfolded his wings with such force that the second layer of skin tore at multiple places. He had to keep going. He still had to go through the glass.

He shielded his eyes as he jumped. The glass shattered, and he was outside in the cold air beating his wings as hard as he could, but the pain made them weak. He was falling towards the street below, reaching upwards to the sky, hoping Owl would be quick enough. He’d forgotten how silent the woman’s wings were, because someone grabbed his flailing wrists and dragged him up into the air.

He turned just in time to see the detective staring after them with wide eyes. Sirens were screaming in the distance, not knowing that their prisoner had just escaped.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is a long one. Enjoy!

They landed on the outskirts of the city by a small farm. Owl let John down carefully before getting on the ground herself. He almost had trouble standing. The adrenaline was almost gone, which meant the pain was overwhelming. He could feel blood running down his back, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded.

“I don’t feel too good,” he stumbled a few steps forward before Owl grabbed him and lead him towards one of the bigger buildings. It was probably the main house.

“Let’s get you inside before you lose consciousness.”

John nodded and shuffled beside her up the stairs to the porch. She opened the doors and guided him to the living room.

“Are you capable of staying awake while I get the fist aid kit?” Owl asked as she supported him down on a footstool. He nodded again and listened as she left the room. There was some commotion from upstairs before she came back with the supplies. “Bite down on this. It’ll hurt. A lot,” she handed him a small cloth and waited until he bit down on it before moving towards his back. He could feel her moving one of his wings out of the way before gently touching the torn skin surrounding it. There was a heavy sigh before something was poured over his back. It burned. He wanted to curl in on himself, get away from the pain as much as he could, but Owl held him in place. He could hear her mumble apologies as she started to clean the torn skin.

“I’m going to stich it, just so you’re prepared,” she said as she pricked his skin with the needle. It was a slow process. They had to stop a couple of times, just to let John catch his breath. She worked for over an hour, stitching him up and applying some bandages to keep the wounds clean. “There, all good. All you need now is rest. I’ve got a room for you down the hall.”

When John didn’t move, Owl walked in front of him and crouched.

“Listen,” she smiled softly at him. “Forget about what happened until tomorrow. You need rest, or that back of yours won’t heal. You lost a lot of blood, making this situation even worse for you, since you’re practically high on low oxygen.”

John felt the first tear roll down his cheek. He looked into Owl’s gentle dark brown eyes. He could see the sympathy clear as day, which made him slightly frustrated, but because of all that had happened in the last few hours, he couldn’t find himself to be mad at her for it. Exhaustion and heartbreak pulled him down into a depressed state, and he didn’t know how to climb out of it.

Owl shushed him and pulled him into a hug. He hadn’t sobbed in years, but right now he wanted nothing more than to cry and feel sorry for himself. He wanted to scream. He felt so utterly stupid for even thinking for a second that the great consulting detective, the amazing Sherlock Holmes, would ever look at him as anything else than a criminal if he found out his secret. And now he was out of the closet, too. The emotions were raging through him. He couldn’t stop clinging to his partner as he continued to sob. He didn’t even realise she helped him to the guest room before he was laying on his stomach on the soft bed. She stayed with him as he started to drift off into a dreamless sleep. The darkness was welcoming as he slipped into it.

He woke up the next morning with a terrible headache and a throbbing back. For a second he couldn’t even remember where he was, but then it all came back to him. The kiss, Sherlock pushing him to the floor, and the barrel of a gun pointed at his chest. He pushed his face into the pillow letting out a low groan.

“Oh, look who’s awake,” Owl came barging in with a tray. “Little miss Sunshine woke up from her beauty sleep,” she put it down on the bedside table and went to open the curtains. “I brought you some brunch.”

John tensed as the light filled the room. It was obviously quite late in the day.

“How long was I asleep?” he asked quietly, scared of his own voice. It was incredibly hoarse and his throat hurt like hell.

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Owl grinned at him and gave him a glass of water. “You’ve been asleep for about twelve hours. But you needed it, so don’t worry.”

“Jesus,” John muttered and sipped to the cool liquid. He felt slightly better after sleeping for so long, but the pain from his encounter the night before still made his chest tighten painfully.

Owl gave him a quick smile before reaching for one of his wings.

“I think you’ll have to keep the wings out until the skin has healed,” she said as she started to untangle some of the feathers. “And you should probably preen them. They look like they’ve been through hell and back.”

She plucked a loose feather and let it float to the floor. She checked the bandages and told him she’d have to change them within the next few hours before she left him to his misery.

He started to wonder what he was going to do, now that Sherlock was out of the picture. He was a wanted man once again, and he wouldn’t be able to go into town within the next few months until his back was all healed. Even then he’d have to live in hiding. Maybe, if he got himself trained again, he’d be able to join Owl on jobs. It would take a lot of time and effort to get to the same level of fitness he’d been before joining the army, but he found himself willing to try, just to get something else to focus on instead of on the pain caused by the detective.

When Owl came back a couple of hours later with fresh bandages, he told her his idea.

“Are you serious?” she stopped applying the fabric and met his determined gaze. “You are. I thought you said you were done killing people for money?”

“I figured I miss it,” John straightened as Owl continued with her task.

“I won’t let you out like this, though,” she chuckled. “I’ll let you join me when you’ve proved to me that you’re able to fly. You have almost no muscle left to actually carry you anywhere.”

“I’m planning on training as much as I can until I’m able to join you again.”

“Not until your back has healed. I won’t be responsible for you not being able to hide your wings in different situations because you got so stuck up on the idea of joining me again that you ended up with even more damage than you started with.”

“Fine. I’ll start combat training, first, then.” John smiled and saw Owl roll her eyes.

“No combat training either. At least four weeks of rest before I let you anywhere near a gun,” she finished up dressing his wounds and picked up the tray from earlier. “And here I thought you were a doctor.”

“I am!”

“Then you should know better about how to treat yourself,” the assassin sighed before leaving the room again.

John was left sitting in the bed, more determined than ever to actually get back into shape. He’d have to start small, though, which meant he’d have to heal. Owl was right. He couldn’t take the chance of getting an infection or just damage his back even more.

He started trying to convince Owl to at least let him have his sniper rifle back. She was not happy about it, but complied when he told her he only wanted to do some maintenance on it after all these years. It didn’t take long before he held his old favourite weapon in his hands. He’d had a few of them, but this one had been his best one by far. The metal was decorated with kill counts, one line per kill, and small drawings from when he waited for a target. The familiar weight made his broken heart warmer.

Four weeks after the Sherlock-incident he was finally able to start combat training. The wounds on his back weren’t entirely healed, but they were ready enough to begin target practice with his sniper rifle. He was a little rusty, but it didn’t take long before he got perfect hits. He continued his training over the next few weeks before Owl said he’s allowed to start working out. He ran as much as he could, delighted that he could finally get out of that dreaded house. He worked on his upper body muscles, especially his shoulders, back and chest. He also kept moving his wings as often as he could, only to keep them ready for eventual flying.

Owl sighed behind him as he shuddered in the early December air. He’d been working for this moment for three months, now.

“You ready?” Owl smiled gently at him and looked over his back once more, just to be sure there wouldn’t be any problems. John felt her fingers trace the scars and the base of his wings. “If you’re not up to it, I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt to wait a bit longer.”

John shook his head and looked out over the huge field they were standing in. A thin layer of snow covered the ground. It was really cold, and for a moment, he regretted not taking Owl’s offer to fetch him a jumper. She’d brought one anyway. The black fabric was tied around her waist in case he’d need it.

“I’ll manage,” he grinned, thrilled at the idea of finally being back with the clouds. Owl nodded and stepped back. He spread his wings to their full width behind him and tested them for a minute, checking that everything felt like it should. He felt a small tug on his left wing, and quickly pulled out the stray feather that was standing at a weird angle. He’d preened them as well as he could with a bit of help from Owl at places he hadn’t been able to reach because of his wounds. They were ready, now.

He closed his eyes, breathing in a lungful of air before staring down at the slight slope in the field. It was perfect for a running start.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Owl reassured him. John could hear her wings beat behind him, obviously warming up the muscles before the flight.

“Then let’s do this,” he shouted and started running down the slope while beating his wings. He didn’t need to run far before his wings brought him up into the air. He felt free for the first time in years. He watched as the ground got further and further away, and the clouds came closer to him. He wanted to touch them again, but he could already feel his muscles straining with the effort of keeping him up in the air.

“How does it feel?” Owl shouted as she flew up beside him. He grinned at her, feeling his eyes burning from the sharp wind.

“It feels great!” John couldn’t control his delighted laughter as he did a small twirl, beating his wings faster to climb higher. Owl followed him as they flew over the fields surrounding the farm.

“Just don’t overdo it,” the female assassin winked. “I think this is good enough for a first time, right?”

John nodded and made his descend towards the ground again. He could have stayed up there forever, but his muscles were already screaming at him for a break.

He landed smoothly in front of the small farmhouse and folded his wings against his icy cold skin, trying to get warm. Owl chuckled and threw him the jumper as she landed beside him.

“Great work, partner,” she grinned and patted his shoulder briefly. She tucked her wings under her skin and got inside the small house, making John follow her. “Tomorrow I’m sure you’ll be able to fly even further.”

“Yeah, probably,” John mumbled and dragged the jumper over his head, carefully pushing his wings out of the holes in the back of it.

“Okay, what’s got you down this time?” Owl sighed and turned to look at him. She noticed his glum expression and walked closer to him. “You want to try to hide them?”

John shrugged.

“Would be nice to sleep on my back again,” he sighed and walked past her into the living room. He sat down on what had become his favourite piece of furniture, the footstool, and let his wings rest on the floor.

“We can always try,” Owl said and sat down in the chair beside him. “I’ll get some moisturizer to soften up the scar tissue if you get a fire going in the hearth,” she smiled and walked out of the room. John got up and found some firewood. Soon after the fire was starting to warm up the room. Owl came back with a bottle of moisturizer and asked him to sit down again. He got his jumper off again, shivering slightly in the cool air.

He felt the cold liquid cover up his skin surrounding his wings, and supressed the urge to arch his back away from the unpleasant feeling.

“Hold still, it’ll warm up eventually,” Owl scolded him. He tried to relax, but flinched at an especially sore spot. She finished up and put the small bottle on the coffee table. “There, now we just wait a bit for the skin to soften slightly. You’re going to be fine, just take it easy.”

He took a deep breath before pulling his wings closer to him. This had been difficult when his skin _wasn’t_ decorated with scars, and now it would probably hurt even more.

“I’ll help you if you’re having trouble,” Owl smiled as he continued to pull his wings down, trying to find the edge of the skin. Finally, he got one of his wings partially into the pocket. It was a slow process, but he got the first wing tucked in, now it was the other. The one that was under the bullet wound. He tried his best to get it in, but because of the stiffness of his skin, he didn’t have a chance. He was beginning to get frustrated when he felt hand grab his struggling wing, keeping it in place before lifting his skin and pushing it under, just enough for him to finish the rest of the job.

“Thank you,” John sighed in relief as the wings were finally tucked away after being out for almost four months. That night he slept better than he had since the case had started.

 

Their first job together came a month later. Christmas was over, a new year was upon them, and John had been miserable the entire time. He missed Baker Street more than he wanted to admit. All the crazy things happening 24/7 and the peculiar people dropping by to get help from the consulting detective and his friend. But they weren’t friends anymore, and the thought that he probably wouldn’t meet Sherlock again made his heart ache. Owl had tried to cheer him up by giving him a new hand gun and a more updated outfit for him to be able to join her on her jobs. He’d felt a little better, but he still couldn’t get the man out of his head. The more he thought about the incident, the more it felt like something was off about it.

John sighed as he looked at the city below him. He was soaring above, holding his sniper tightly in his arms as he waited for Owl to give him the signal. He looked for his target and spotted the man walking out of one of the buildings. He lifted the sniper against his shoulder and slowed down his speed as much as he could. The moment he got an ‘all clear’ from Owl, he took a deep breath before letting it out slowly, pulling the trigger at the pace of his exhale, pausing as he took the shot, watching the man fall to the ground. It was a perfect hit, and John could feel the adrenaline rushing through him as the people on the ground started to run around in panic. He smiled to himself and hurried to meet up with Owl on one of the tallest buildings in London.

“God, I’ve missed this,” She grinned and gave him a quick hug. “You and me against the rest of the world, just like old times.”

“I’d forgotten how exciting it felt,” John chuckled and checked his sniper over. He pulled up his knife from its sheath and scratched another line in the metal.

“I hope you’ll join me on more adventures in the near future, Mr. Hawk,” the assassin giggled and punched him playfully in the shoulder.

“Definitely, miss Owl,” he grinned and put the knife back.

It was the first of many successful jobs. John finally felt like he’d moved on from his life with the detective, and he could start living again. That is, until a few months later.

They had gotten a job from a banker. They always paid well, but they were rather dull jobs. Almost always just rivalries or mistresses. John took his time on getting to where the woman worked. She was supposed to be finished at nine which was about half an hour away. He landed on the building opposite of her workplace and sat down to wait for her. He watched the clueless people walking about, not a care in the world in the cold February night. That’s when he spotted the dark curls on a tall, lanky man walking down the street towards the building he was watching. He quickly grabbed his sniper and looked at the man trough the sight. There he was. For the first time in about half a year, he saw Sherlock Holmes. He felt his heart speed up as he watched the man stroll into the building and disappear from view.

What had shocked him the most was the detective’s appearance. He looked like he’d been starving himself. He was so thin and almost fragile that John almost wanted to shoot him just to put him out of his misery. Or maybe it was because he was mad the detective probably _had_ been starving himself after John left, now that no one was looking after him. Not on a daily basis at least.

John watched, stunned, as the man came out of the building half an hour later, together with his target. John cursed. Of course, she was part of one of his cases. He sighed and lifted his sniper to get a closer look at them.

They were walking side by side, obviously in deep conversation about some subject. For once, John wished he had Owl’s supreme hearing. Not that his own hearing was bad, but hers was fantastic in comparison. The scientists weren’t happy with only wings. They had to keep experimenting on them.

John shook his head to try and find his focus again. He looked up to find the pair gone. A slight panic fluttered through him as he jumped off the building and tried to search for the two of them, finally seeing them walk down a busy street. John almost lost them again as he soared over them, circling them and readying his sniper. He took aim and was about to fire when the pair took a sudden turn, making Sherlock the one being aimed at. John almost dropped the weapon. It had caught him off guard. He tried to get himself together again and once again lifted his sniper. This time the two people continued on a straight enough line, making John able to get a clear shot. He took a deep breath, sped up a little, and took the shot when he was straight over them. He watched as Sherlock jumped out of the way, and the woman collapse. The detective looked around frantically for the source, and John could’ve sworn the man saw him, but he continued to look around in the chaos caused by the shooting. John could feel tears start to fall from his eyes. He didn’t know why, but he felt like the past six months didn’t happen, and that the detective had just pushed him to the ground again.

By the time John got back to the farmhouse, he was bawling like a child. He threw the fire arm to the ground and almost collapsed when his feet hit the ground as he landed. He ended up sprawled over the steps to the porch, crying as his heart felt broken once more. He didn’t even hear Owl landing beside him, and only noticed her when she pulled him into a tight embrace, shushing him softly. He hadn’t had this type of episode for a while.

She was able to drag him into the house again, quickly settling him on the footstool. It seemed like the best place for some reason.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered as she wiped away one of his tears with her thumb. He sniffed and tried to stop the uncontrollable sobbing. She rubbed his arm soothingly and waited patiently for him answer.

“I miss him,” John was able to choke out. “I miss his so God damned much, and it hurts. Why can’t I just get over him?!”

Owl sighed and sat down cross-legged in front of him on the floor. She held his hand tightly in her own.

“Listen, Hawk,” she started, but then changed her mind. “John. Maybe you should talk to him? I mean, if it’s bothering you, that is.”

John looked at her. Her brown hair was dishevelled and the pony tail was loose after the flight. She looked tired after the long evening, and he tried not to feel even more like a burden. She seemed to notice his expression however, and punched him in the knee.

“Stop feeling sorry for me,” she rolled her eyes. “I’m not the one that got their heart broken by a psychopath.”

“Sociopath, there’s a difference,” John corrected her and felt himself smile at the memory of how the detective would always correct people who called him a psychopath.

“Yeah, yeah, you should still talk to him.”

“What if something happens again?”

“Then you have three options,” Owl said. “One; you flee now that your wings work properly. Two; you kill everyone that tries to catch you, and then you’re able to flee. And three; you surrender.”

“It’s not that simple,” John sighed and rubbed at his swollen eyes.

“It seems to me that you’d feel better if you just served the time they give you. In that case, it would be that simple.”

John stared at her.

“And if you behave, you’ll be out before you know it. I’m sure even Sherlock would appreciate it, actually. Coming clean, just for him. How romantic,” Owl mocked, which earned her a soft push from the broken doctor.

“I’ll do it.”

“Great! If you need me, I’ll be waiting to hear from you. Keep me updated and all that.”

“I won’t leave until tomorrow morning, I think,” John raised an eyebrow at her frown.

“Fine, I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she rolled her eyes and walked out of the room. John was left alone and decided to get a glass of water before he went to sleep. He was exhausted both emotionally and physically after the long night, and he really needed some good sleep. The problem was that he couldn’t. He was totally awake and it annoyed him immensely. In the end, he finally drifted off.

He woke up in the afternoon. Owl had brought him a tray with breakfast and a little note that read ‘ _Go get him, tiger’_ with a small smiley face. He guessed she’d already left for the day, probably going to the city to buy some more supplies. He decided he couldn’t wait for her to get back, so he quickly scribbled a thank-you note and put on his gear. He put on his leg holster just in case something happened.

He left the house and headed for Baker Street. When he arrived it was late afternoon, and he was quite sure the detective was out of the house. John landed on the building on the other side of the street, and looked in through the window to see if anyone was home. When it seemed clear, he waited for the street to clear and landed outside 221B. He opened the door quietly and snuck in, listening to any sound that would indicate there being anyone home. He walked up the stairs, avoiding any steps that creaked, and entered the flat he’d lived in for the past five years.

He started to explore. The window he’d jumped through had been changed, but other than that, it seemed just like it had when he left. He continued into the kitchen, opening the fridge and feeling his heart sink at the sight that met him. There is absolutely nothing there. No food, not even any experiments or body parts. When he looked around, there was really nothing in the kitchen at all. Only the petri dishes and other equipment the detective was so determined to keep on the kitchen table.

John sighed and walked over to the cupboard, finding the kettle. He knew there would take some time for the detective to get home if he just witnessed a murder, which meant John had some time before the detective got home.

He started to tuck in his wings as he waited for the water to boil. He got them in effortlessly and rolled his shoulders to get them to settle better against his body.

Footsteps were coming up the stairs. John recognised them immediately as Mrs. Hudson’s, and felt himself panic for a second before sneaking towards Sherlock’s bedroom. He closed the door silently behind him and listened for the old landlady. He could hear her walking around, probably dusting and cleaning a bit. The sudden screech from the kettle made him jump. He’d totally forgotten about that.

He could hear a muffled ‘hello’ from the kitchen followed by silence. John started to back further into the room, almost falling when his feet got tangled in something on the floor. He looked down and picked up the thing he’d almost stumbled over. It was his jumper. The jumper he’d been wearing the day he left.

He felt new tears threatening to fall as the door to the bedroom shot open and revealed a terrified looking Mrs. Hudson. John could only stare at the barrel of the gun she was holding and feeling slightly faint as she only seemed to hold it tighter as she recognised him.

“What are you doing here?” she huffed and watched as he looked down at the jumper in his hands. There were still bloodstains on it after his evening with Irene. It felt so long ago now, like it was in a different lifetime. “Answer me, you demon!”

John couldn’t help it. He sniffed helplessly and clutched the fabric tighter towards his chest. He could see the landlady falter in his peripheral vision. He didn’t care. He just wanted to come home. Come back to Baker Street and run around London together with his best friend. He wished for this to never have happened and that he’d never left.

He slowly sat down on the floor, still holding the jumper tightly against him, like it was a lifeline. He could hear Mrs. Hudson lower her arm and walk closer to him.

“John?” she crouched in front of him. He didn’t dare look at her. He felt so full of shame and regret after all he’d done. He just let out a whimper and bowed his head down, trying to appear as small as he could. If he could just die, that would probably be the best. “Oh, John,” she let a hand fall to his shoulders, cringing slightly at his flinch. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to. It’s just that Sherlock told us about who you were, and I got a bit spooked when I heard someone in the flat, so I assumed the worst. Could be anyone, you know.”

John looked up at her and nodded. They often had break-ins at the flat because of their work, so he didn’t blame her for protecting herself. He didn’t blame her for calling him a demon, either to be honest. He could just as well be one.

“Now, come on, I’ll make you a cuppa, and then we can talk about what happened if you want,” Mrs. Hudson pulled on him gently and got him up from the floor. He followed her slowly into the kitchen and further into the living room, before sitting down in his old chair. Mrs. Hudson got two cups of coffee ready and gave one to John, who accepted it gratefully.

“Okay, tell me what happened,” she smiled and sat back in Sherlock’s chair.

John sighed and took a long sip from the warm liquid.

“It started with the assassination case,” John started. “I found out we were trying to catch two assassins that had been plaguing London for a few days. Then I found out I was one of the ones who was supposed to be assassinating people, when in reality it was my old partner. I tried to hide my wings, but somehow, Sherlock found out. He called Lestrade and pointed a gun at me, so I fled through the window. Sorry about the window, by the way. I just figured it was the best option since Sherlock didn’t want me around anymore, I guess. And I’d rather not go to prison if I can help it. I still don’t understand why he told on me, though. I shot that cabbie one of the first days we met, and he didn’t tell on me, then.”

Mrs. Hudson watched as he put the cup down on the table.

“I don’t think he understood it, either, to be honest,” she said. “He’s an emotional one, you know. I’m guessing the reason he called Lestrade was because he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t know how to react.”

John nodded at this. He knew the detective well enough. Calling Lestrade was probably just a way to cope with the fact that the one he thought he knew, wasn’t who he thought he knew after all.

“How is he doing?” John asked, the fear of asking drowned out by the curiosity. Mrs. Hudson shook her head sadly.

“He’s hardly eating anything, works constantly, and never sleeps,” she sighed. “We’ve been on edge ever since you left, really. Even Mycroft has been visiting more frequently, all to keep his brother away from drugs, you know. Every night is a danger night.”

John frowned. Was he really that much of an influence on the detective? He knew he’d been a lot better after he moved into the flat, but that the detective shut down entirely when he left was hard to believe.

“And you think it’s because I left?” The question made the landlady chuckle.

“Of course, it is, John,” she giggled. “Why else would he do this to himself? He was never this bad, even before he met you. I’m afraid he’ll collapse if he doesn’t take a break soon. Oh, John, he misses you terribly.”

“How do you know?” John was afraid to hear the answer.

“He talks to himself, sometimes,” Mrs. Hudson explained. “Or, he talks to someone as if they were there. I know he did it before you left, too, but it’s just happened more often than not. He’s talking to you, even though you’re not there.”

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. This became worse and worse by the second.

“I’m planning on talking to him as soon as he’s back tonight,” he said and leaned back in the chair.

“That’s great, John,” the landlady exclaimed and shot up from her seat. “I’ll call him at once,” she fished up her phone and started to dial a number.

“You’re not going to tell him it’s me, right? He might bring the entire force.” John glanced at her.

“Of course not,” she grinned and placed the phone against her ear. “Now shush, it’s ringing,” she waited for a minute. “Oh, Sherlock, it’s terrible!” the old woman put up quite a show as she explained that they’d had a break in, and that the entire place was turned upside down. She winked at John who grinned at her. When she hung up, she grabbed the cups and walked into the kitchen.

“When will he be here?” John walked up to her and helped clean up. It wasn’t that much of a mess, so it only took a couple of minutes.

“In about ten minutes, I would guess,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Oh, John it’s so nice to see you back here,” she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and a hug before walking towards the door to the stairs.

“It’s good to be home,” John smiled at her and watched as she walked out of the flat.

He went into the living room and watched the setting sun as it sunk slowly towards the horizon. He didn’t have to wait long before he heard the front door slam open and footsteps run up the stairs. A moment later, the door to the flat opened and Sherlock stood frozen in the doorway as he noticed John standing in front of the window.

“Long time no see…” John trailed off as he turned around and for the first time got a good look at his former best friend. The man standing in front of him was so thin you could see every bone in his body, there were dark bags under his eyes and he looked exhausted. John felt like crying again just seeing the state the detective was in. But he’d cried enough for a lifetime, just these last months, so he held it down.

Sherlock took a small step forward, raising his arms in a non-threatening way, as if he was approaching a bird that would fly away from him at any moment if he wasn’t careful. He opened his mouth as if to say something before whispering, almost inaudible;

“John?”


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was exhausted. He didn’t want to admit it, but he could almost feel his body shutting down by itself. Six months had passed since John left. He had to keep going. He couldn’t dwell on the past. He had to figure out who these serial killers were. London had been terrorised by three individual serial killers, suspected to be working together. They were quick and efficient, which meant they were almost impossible to catch. Only one witness had been found, and then she’d been killed by one of the birds of prey. He hadn’t seen who it was, but he had a small hope it wasn’t John.

The frustration was getting annoying. He had difficulty concentrating on anything, and of course someone had broken into his flat, making everything worse.

He’d been talking to Lestrade about the murder the night before when Mrs. Hudson called. She sounded frantic, so he decided to leave the DI without another word and rush back to his flat. He didn’t think anything of it when he didn’t meet the landlady as she usually would when they had break-ins. Instead he ran up the stairs to his flat, and opened the door to find the flat just as he left it, except one mayor detail. There was a person standing in front of the window. A man in a black turtleneck jumper with two holes cut out of it to show the wing tattoos underneath.

“Long time no see…” The man trailed off as he turned around. He faltered when he saw the detective. All colour vanished from his face, and he almost looked horrified. Sherlock wanted to make that look go away. He knew what he looked like. He knew what the last six months had done to him, and he wasn’t proud of it.

He took a step forward; afraid he’d scare the man off.

“John?” he whispered and felt his knees go weak when the man smiled softly at him.

“Hi, Sherlock,” John looked different. He’d become a lot more muscular, that’s for sure. Still, he didn’t seem like the old John. This version was sad, almost depressed. “I just came by to tell you why I left, really.”

Sherlock just stared at him, drinking up everything, wanting nothing more than to just tell him to come home. Tell him to stay with him and forget the last six months ever happened.

“That night when you…” John paused and looked down at his hands. “Kissed me, I’d been talking to Irene while you were with Mycroft. She made me realise a few things. Safe to say that when you kissed me, I was thrilled. I’d been stressed out the entire week because of the assassins’ case, and for once I thought I could just relax, and that if you found out my secret, it wouldn’t matter. Until, of course, you tripped me to the floor and pointed a gun in my face,” John looked up again, meeting his eyes. “I felt betrayed, hurt, heartbroken, scared and just empty, and I figured you wouldn’t want me around after all that, so I thought it was best to just leave. I couldn’t bear to meet Lestrade after that incident, which made me jump out of the window,” John crossed his arms and held his gaze. “But then I started thinking. It didn’t seem like you to miss an opportunity to have your very own assassin to accompany you on your cases. So that leaves the question, Sherlock Holmes, why the hell did you call Lestrade?”

Sherlock looked away. He didn’t know why he’d done it.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he ended up saying, making John huff.

“By pointing a gun at me and calling the police? I thought we were friends.”

“You’re an assassin, John,” Sherlock studied his own feet while continuing. “If that’s your real name.”

“Technically, no, but I prefer that a lot more than my real name. Too many memories from the experimentation days…” John sighed.

“The what?” Sherlock stared at him. John shrugged.

“Where do you think I got the wings? I wasn’t exactly born with them,” John chuckled a bit. “We were part of an experiment. Someone wanted to see if they could fuse a bird’s wings with a human body, which meant they had to get test subjects. I’m sure we weren’t the first ones, but I guess we were the first successful ones. They attached the wings when we were just a few weeks old. They had made them using parts of our DNA to make it easier for our bodies to accept them. And it worked. We grew up, and so did the wings. They got bigger the older we became, and the scientists started training us. We learned how to fly, and a lot of different combat skills and so on. We figured they were going to use us as weapons, which we didn’t want. We were able to escape, burning down the lab in the process, and stopping them from continuing their research. We didn’t want anyone to be used like that,” John was silent for a moment, looking as if he was pondering if he should continue or not. “We didn’t know how to survive on our own, so we ended up trying to raid a mansion for food and shelter one night. We got caught. The owner wanted us to do jobs for him. He said it wasn’t anything big, just killing a guy for him. With our training, it would be easy, and we ended up doing it for him. That’s pretty much how we became assassins.”

Sherlock couldn’t move. His curiosity was burning. He’d gotten a small glimpse of John’s wings the night he jumped out the window, but the fact that they were attached scientifically made him want to observe them and figure out how they worked.

“Can I…” he was almost afraid to ask. “Can I see them?”

John stared at him, obviously trying to see if it was a trick or something. Sherlock waited patiently until the man nodded sharply.

“Okay,” he said and waited for the detective to come closer. He tugged the jumper over his head, making his hair messy from the tight neckline. Sherlock almost wanted to drag his fingers through it. It looked so soft.

The thought was quickly disposed of as John turned around. The sight that met him made his stomach drop. The ‘tattoos’ were surrounded by ragged scars leading towards the wings.

Sherlock gently put his fingers to one of the scars on his shoulders, retracting them when John flinched violently.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, it just sort of… happened,” Sherlock apologised and started to take a step back.

“No, no, it’s fine, you just surprised me,” John reassured and smiled at him over his shoulder. “Come on, it’s fine. You have permission.”

Sherlock walked closer and started to trace the scars again, knowing exactly when he got them. The memory of wings shooting out of John’s back made a shiver go down his spine.

He let his fingers run over the skin until he reached the tattoos. Now that he was up close, the details were amazing. They really looked like real wings. And then he touched them. They didn’t just look realistic, they felt like actual feathers.

“What?” he mumbled as he traced each individual feather. John chuckled.

“They aren’t actually tattoos,” John explained quickly. “They’re just hidden underneath a second layer of skin. It’s practical if you want to hide them.”

Fascinated by this new information, Sherlock moved his fingers to the edge of the ‘tattoo’ and tried to press one of his fingers under the skin. John jumped forward and turned to face him, eyes wide. The motion made Sherlock jump back as well, hands up in a non-threatening position.

“I’m sorry, I got curious,” Sherlock tried to say when he noticed John’s flustered expression. “John?” he asked as John seemed to get caught in his own thoughts. The man glanced at him before looking away again.

“Please, don’t do that,” he sighed. “It’s just a really strange sensation, and quite uncomfortable. I can just show you my wings instead, if you want?”

“Can I watch as you, you know, reveal them?” Sherlock almost thought John would say no, but then he turned around and started to press his wings out. Sherlock couldn’t help but gasp. It was an unnatural sight. The skin gave away and settled against the base of two great wings. The gasp seemed to startle John as he turned around to look at the detective, scepticism written clear as day on his face. The wings were folded against his back tightly, as if he was trying to hide them as much as possible.

“May I?” Sherlock reached out slowly towards the wings. John sighed and stretched them out as much as the flat allowed. They weren’t big enough to reach the ends, but they were still huge. Beautiful brown, red and white feathers decorated them.

“Just stay away from the skin, please,” John said and turned around again. Sherlock didn’t waste a single moment and started to check the wings over, feeling the bones underneath.  He ran his fingers through the feathers earning a low groan from John. He noticed one of them were pointing at an odd angle.

“There’s a loose feather,” he said and tried to figure out a way to remove it without hurting John.

“Just pluck it,” John said and moved his wing down so he could watch the detective. Sherlock stared at the feather. He didn’t want to hurt the man.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It’s loose anyway, just take it out. You can even keep it and experiment on it, too, if you want.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He ended up just continuing to glare at the feather until John got impatient and plucked it out himself. He shoved it into his hands, closing the detective’s fingers around it. Sherlock looked up at him with wide eyes. He hadn’t experimented on anything since John left. He didn’t know if he’d be able to do it, especially if John left again. He was about to say something when John cut him off.

“I don’t want to hear excuses as of why the hell you haven’t been experimenting since I left. Just keep it, okay? What you do with it is your decision. You can put it on a hat, for all I care.”

Sherlock wanted to hug him. He wanted to hug him so bad and maybe even kiss him softly and tell him how much of an idiot he’d been. He wanted to tell him how much he’d missed him. He’d missed him to the point where he couldn’t eat or sleep, or even function properly. He didn’t say anything out loud, of course, he just clutched the feather tighter in his hands. He wanted John to come home. To join him on cases and scold him for ruining the kitchen table, and to sit and listen to him ramble out deductions and to maybe even sit and watch stupid TV shows when they didn’t have anything else to do.

He was just about to say it when the door to the flat flew open and Lestrade stood in the doorway.

“Sherlock, there’s been anoth-“ he stopped and pulled his gun. John shoved Sherlock behind him with his wing and pulled his own gun. The detective inspector and the assassin faced each other, guns at the ready, waiting for the other to move. Sherlock stood frozen behind the shorter man. John’s wings stretched outward in a threatening manner, making him look bigger than he was. The DI looked astonished and frankly terrified as the assassin smiled. Sherlock tried to see Lestrade over the wings. “John, put down the gun,” the detective inspector said slowly, trying to sound intimidating. “You know I don’t want to shoot you, but I will if I have to.”

“I’d like to see you try,” John mocked and straightened his back, confidence radiating off him in waves, almost. “You really think you’d be able to shoot me? I’m a bloody assassin, Greg. I killed someone just last night. Isn’t that right, Sherlock? You were there.”

“That was you?” Sherlock whispered. He’d hoped it wasn’t John.

“Of course, it was me,” the assassin never took his sight off Lestrade, calculating the man’s every move.

“You know you just confessed to murder, right?” the detective inspector continued to aim at John. He seemed more anxious than ever.

“I know,” John grinned. “You want to hear about the rest of them, too? You want me to tell you about the ten people I killed just the last month? Or would you rather hear about something else? Did you ever wonder who actually killed that cabbie five years ago? Shot dead through two windows. Yeah, that was me, too. And you know what? I enjoyed every second of it.”

John continued to smile at the expression of dread on Lestrade’s features. He tucked his wings underneath his skin, hiding them from view. Sherlock watched as he threw down his gun and sat down on his knees. He lifted his hands behind his head and glared at the DI. When no one seemed to react, John sighed.

“I’m surrendering, detective inspector. Congratulations, you’ve caught me.”

Sherlock stared at the assassin sitting on the floor.

“John, no…” he whispered making John tense.

“Yes, Sherlock. Don’t make this worse for me than it already is.”

“But John-“

“Shut up!” John roared and turned to be able to meet his eyes. “You don’t get to say anything. This is my decision, not yours. I’m doing this for you, don’t you see that?” tears started to roll down his cheeks. He continued in a whisper. “I love you, you moron.”

Sherlock’s world was crumbling. He didn’t know John’s feelings were that strong. He’d thought it was only an attraction, nothing more. When he thought about it, it made sense. Not only that, but he realised the feeling was mutual.

Lestrade came closer, gun still raised, just in case. He took out his handcuffs and was about to put them on when John spoke again.

“Wait, am I allowed to put on a jumper? It’s getting a bit chilly,” he looked at the DI.

“I guess that’s okay. Just hurry up,” Lestrade took a step back waiting for John to move.

“Sherlock,” John said instead, capturing Sherlock’s attention. “Could you grab my jumper for me?” Sherlock walked towards the black one he’d worn earlier. “Not that one, the one I had when I left, please.” Sherlock frowned and walked into his bedroom, picking up the jumper before returning. He handed it to John and watched as he pulled it over his head. Lestrade quickly put on the handcuffs and made him stand up. John smiled at Sherlock one last time before being pushed out the door and down the stairs, leaving the detective by himself in the flat.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t move. He was afraid that if he did, he’d fall apart entirely. John had come back to him only to be dragged away again.

“You boys okay, up here?” Mrs. Hudson walked into the flat. She stopped when she saw Sherlock standing alone in the room. “What happened? Where’s John?”

The question broke him. He was weeping before he could control himself. John was gone once more, and this time he wouldn’t come back. His crimes were enough to keep him locked away for the rest of his life.

Mrs. Hudson pulled him gently over to the couch. She sat down beside him, trying to comfort him. She knew it was hopeless.

Sherlock felt himself drift off. The sadness was making him even more tired than he already was. Finally, he let the exhaustion take him.


	8. Chapter 8

It had been a month since John got dragged out of 221B Baker Street. There had been a trial where John confessed to all the things he’d done, and as expected, he’d been sentenced to imprisonment for life. For the first few days, he’d been mostly by himself. The guards were a pain in the ass, he’d more than once wanted to just kill them. Everyone knew who he was, which made everything even worse, given that he’d ended up in one of the highest security prisons with a lot of people he’d helped catching.

Some of them he actually knew from his old days, before he became John Watson. They were nice enough, until he turned his back on them and they preceded to kick him down. He got quite the bruise, but they’d ended up in the ICU, so he guessed they were even. He’d spent a week just to make the rest of the prisoners understand not to mess with him. All it earned him was a beating from the guards. He ended up in isolation after harming one of them in self-defence.

He was laying on his bunk when one of the less annoying guards knocked on the door. The man had been a fan of his blog, and sometimes ended up conversing with John about all his adventures together with the detective.

“Dr Watson,” the guard opened the little hatch in the door. John looked up and smiled at him.

“Yes?”

“You’ve got a visitor.”

John frowned. No one had visited him since he got here. For a moment he almost thought it could be Sherlock.

He got up from the bed and waited for the guard to open the door. He held his hands out for the man to put on the handcuffs and followed him to the visiting area. He sat down by one of the tables, almost surprised that no one else was there. The guard left him, making John confused. Was this normal?

His question was answered a moment later when the door opened to reveal none other than Mycroft Holmes. John groaned.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he exclaimed as the older Holmes brother walked up to him.

“Good afternoon, John,” he smiled and sat down on the opposite side of him.

“If this is about that guard a few weeks ago, I’m not sorry.”

Mycroft sighed, and for a moment John saw how tired the man actually was. It was unusual to see him like this, and it made John feel uneasy. Something was wrong. There was no other explanation for why Mycroft would ever visit him like this.

“He’s shutting down, John,” the man seemed to deflate and almost looked like a wounded animal. Another flare of uneasiness shot through John. “I’m afraid he won’t make it for much longer if nothing changes. He’s not eating, not sleeping, he just sits there, staring straight ahead holding a feather. I tried to take it away from him, if only to get a reaction. I got him to look at me, but he never said a word, just sat there. I… I don’t know what to do, other than to ask you.”

“Ask me what?” John frowned. He didn’t like where this was going.

“I’m getting you out of here.”

“What?”

“You’re free to go this evening,” Mycroft gave him some papers. John looked at them and recognised them as release documents. “I can’t force you to do it,” the man continued. “But I would greatly appreciate it if you would…” he trailed off.

“If I would what?” John watched him intently, waiting for him to elaborate further.

“Will you take care of him, John?” Mycroft met his gaze, and John was taken aback by the soft look in his eyes. His expression was unexpectedly sad and worry shone bright in his features. “I’m worried about him. Please? He’s suffering without you. I’m almost certain he’s found his old habits again. You know what I mean.”

John didn’t hesitate. He nodded and wanted nothing more than to get out of there as soon as possible. Sherlock needed him.

“Thank you,” Mycroft sighed in relief and got to his feet. “A car will be waiting for you outside when you’re out. It’ll take you to Baker Street. I’ll see you soon.”

John watched as he walked out of the room. The guard came back to follow him to his cell. When the guard asked if he was okay, he couldn’t answer. He was too nervous of what to expect when he got back to Sherlock.

He didn’t have to wait long before someone came to his cell to help him get his things so he could leave. When they gave him his jumper, he almost teared up. He put it on and hugged himself tightly. God, he’d missed it.

When he got out the doors, he saw the black car waiting for him. He walked over and got in, almost expecting Mycroft to sit in the passenger seat like he sometimes did. What he didn’t expect, however, was Lestrade.

“Greg?” John leaned forward to get a better look at the DI.

“Hello, John,” Lestrade sighed and made the chauffeur start the car. They drove away from the prison and headed towards Baker Street.

“What are you doing here?” John questioned and had to supress a giggle at the man’s grumpy face. He was secretly happy to see him.

“I’m fetching you so you can fix Sherlock,” Lestrade growled.

“Are you still mad at me for pointing a gun at you?” John snickered and gave him a friendly punch in the arm.

“You’re a murderer, John.” Lestrade said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m aware,” John leaned back in his seat, watching the buildings outside. “I just wondered if you’d like to join me at the pub when all this blows over.”

John frowned when Lestrade didn’t answer him. He let out a sigh.

“I’m sorry, Greg,” he said. “You don’t have to believe me when I say I didn’t actually know what I was doing was wrong, and when I found out, I wanted to end it. I joined the army to get out of it, and the rest is history.”

“I thought you said you enjoyed killing people?”

“I do, when it’s for the right reasons,” John explained. “The cabbie incident was protecting Sherlock, I’m sure you understand that.”

“And the rest of them?”

“It’s satisfying getting a perfect hit. They never suffer. Both me and Owl have always made sure to kill them instantly. Except for the cabbie. But he was threatening Sherlock, so I was angry.”

“Jesus, John.” Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“You asked.”

“I know I asked,” the DI sighed. “I regret it.”

John smiled. He’d missed Greg. They’d been quite good friends before all this happened.

The car stopped outside Sherlock’s flat. John took a moment to settle his nerves, before stepping out onto the sidewalk. He watched as they drove off down the street when a gunshot was heard from inside. He didn’t waste another moment before charging into the building and up the stairs. More gunshots followed, and for a moment John almost thought Sherlock was fighting someone. That is until he opened the door and watched the detective run around, firing bullets all over the place.

“Sherlock!” he shouted getting the detective’s attention. Sherlock spun around, pointing the gun at him.

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in prison,” Sherlock glared and wobbled a few steps forward. John frowned and looked around, spotting the used syringe on the coffee table. He felt his throat tighten. Of course. “No, don’t say it. You’re here to help me figure out this case. I must be in my mind palace. What was I doing here, again? Oh, right! Clues.”

John watched as he stumbled around the flat, looking through files until he stopped.

“Wait a second,” he used the gun to scratch his temple. “You shouldn’t be here. You’re never coming back to me,” John watched as he aimed the gun at his own head. He felt the world come to a stop as the man turned to face him.

“Sherlock, what are you doing,” he stepped forward slowly.

“I can’t live without you,” the man started to sob. John continued closer to him, feeling his heart beat faster.

“You’re not going to live without me, I’m right here,” John tried to say, but the detective just shook his head.

“No, you’re not. This is just a hallucination. The real John is in prison. Lestrade took him away from me.”

John reached out and grabbed the gun, gently pulling it out of Sherlock’s grip. The man looked completely lost. He tried to come up with something to say to make the detective understand that he was actually in the room.

“You know, I think John would hate it if you left without saying goodbye,” John put the gun down on the table. He moved carefully to not startle the man further. “He needs you just as much as you need him, you hear me, Sherlock? Don’t you dare leave him now.”

Sherlock nodded. John smiled at him before pulling him into a tight hug, trying not to think about how thin he’d become. The detective continued to sob, his legs gave out under him, and he started to sink slowly down to the floor. John joined him until both of them were seated on the floor. Sherlock pretty much in John’s lap, clinging to him like his life depended on it. John rocked them back and forth running his fingers through the dark curls soothingly.

“John?” the detective whispered softly when he’d finally calmed down a bit.

“Yes, Sherlock?” John kissed the top of his head softly.

“I’m sorry for what happened that night,” Sherlock mumbled into his chest. “It started out as a plot to find out if you really were who Mycroft said you were, and I didn’t really care if you were an assassin or not. I thought playing with your feelings was the best option, but then I found out I genuinely just wanted to kiss you, so I did, and then you kissed me back, and I lost it. I got confused because you always said you’re definitely not gay, and then I got scared that you played _me_ for some reason, and that just made it worse. I’m not good with my emotions, John, and I called Lestrade, since I didn’t know what to do, and you were just laying on the floor, not moving, and I didn’t know how to get you up again, so I saw the gun and at least that got you moving, but you looked so empty and not at all like yourself, so I freaked out even more. I didn’t know what I was saying, so I ended up saying something idiotic, and I’m so sorry, John.”

John tried his best not to laugh at the rambling. He hugged the man tighter and was about to say something when he felt the detective go limp in his arms.

“Sherlock?” he asked, quickly checking for a pulse. He found a weak one, but that didn’t mean he was out of danger. He sprung into action, hoisted the detective up into his arms and ran down the stairs, hoping to God that Lestrade was still there. He wasn’t. Of course, he wasn’t. John tried not to panic. He didn’t have his phone on him, and it seemed like Mrs. Hudson was out.

He hurried back into the building, putting Sherlock down on the floor while taking off his jumper. He tied it around his waist quickly, before grabbing Sherlock again. He unfolded his wings and walked back outside with the detective securely in his arms. People were staring at them, stunned at the sight of his wings. He couldn’t care less, he needed to get Sherlock to a hospital as soon as possible.

He spread his wings, and pushed off of the stairs outside the flat. At the moment, he was quite happy Sherlock wasn’t too heavy. Out of him and Owl, Owl was the one with the strongest wings.

He continued to beat his wings furiously, ignoring the sting in his muscles. He could see the hospital in the distance, and it didn’t take long for him to get there. He landed outside and hurried through the doors.

“I need some help!” he shouted, cursing as people just stared at him. “For fuck’s sake, don’t just stand there!”

That seemed to do the trick as multiple doctors came running towards him. He quickly explained to them what had happened, and let them take Sherlock with them. He followed them towards the ER, but was asked to wait outside. He nodded and used the time to hide his wings and put on his jumper again.

He walked over to the reception desk and asked to use the phone. The lady smiled at him and let him use it. He called Lestrade, and asked if he could pick up Sherlock’s phone from his flat, before getting to the hospital. The detective inspector got there quickly enough, and they went to the ER together. They sat in silence as they waited for any news concerning the detective.

“I think I found your old phone, too,” Lestrade said after a while. John glanced at him, curiously. He’d left his phone behind at the flat all those months ago. He’s gotten Owl to buy him a new one. Lestrade handed the device to him together with a charger.

“Thank you,” John took the two items and plugged the charger into the phone. It lit up and he smiled.

“Don’t mention it,” the DI mumbled. They ended up sitting in silence once more, not sure what else to talk about.

A couple of hours later, a nurse walked up to them.

“He’s stable. You got here just in time,” the nurse smiled at them, waving for them to follow her. They were led to a small room with one bed and a chair. Sherlock was laying silently on the bed, and John tried his best not to run over to him. He was safe, for now.

They waited for a while, before Lestrade got a call and had to leave. John watched Sherlock and moved a stray hair out of his face. He smiled at the soft feeling, ending up running his fingers through his curls.

He yawned and checked the time. It was almost twelve at night, and he ended up falling asleep while resting his arms and head on the bed. He startled awake when he felt fingers playing with his hand. He straightened up and stared at Sherlock. The man was looking at him in wonder.

“Am I dead?” he whispered softly.

“No,” John said and took his hand in his.

“Is it really you, John?”

John rolled his eyes, stood up and flicked him on the nose, making Sherlock flinch.

“Does that answer your question?” John raised an eyebrow at the gentle smile playing at Sherlock’s lips.

“I missed you,” he said, squeezing John’s hand.

“I figured,” John grinned.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Furious.”

Sherlock looked away and sighed.

“It’s okay if you leave, John,” he mumbled quietly. “If you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” John held his hand tighter. Sherlock looked at him in awe. “I’m staying with you until you throw me out.”

“I love you, you know that, right?”

“I was starting to realise it, yes.”

“I’m sorry for being stupid.” Sherlock whispered. John just reached up and stroked the dark mop of curls on his head. The detective leaned into his touch.

“Just don’t do it again, and we’re good,” John smiled, tugging gently at the hair. “Now, tell me about your case. It must’ve been a difficult one if you ended up in the hospital because of it.”

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, trying to focus through the petting.

“Three bodies at the time, all in different places. We’ve come close to catching them, but they’re quick. There has to be three of them, and they have to work together, or at least have some sort of communication, since it’s always on the same night. We finally got a witness, and I was talking to her when you shot her,” Sherlock gave him a side-glance.  

“Sorry,” John smiled sheepishly. “I think I might be able to help you with that, though.”

“What?”

“Well, if they wanted her dead, the one that gave us the job must have been one of the serial killers, right?”

“It’s a possibility,” Sherlock thought about it for a moment. “And you know who it is?”

“I don’t, but I’m sure Owl does. I’m sure she’d be happy to help.”

He pulled out his now charged phone and dialled the number. He didn’t have to wait long before someone answered.

“John! How are you, I haven’t heard from you in a while,” Owl said happily. John cringed as he thought about what had happened. “Wait, didn’t you end up in prison?”

“Yeah, early release,” he chuckled. “Listen, I need you to get to the hospital. Are you around?”

“Yeah, just in the area. What floor?”

“Third.”

“Okay, see you in a minute,” she hung up, and not a moment later, there was a tap on the window. John got up and hurried over to open up for the assassin. Sherlock stared at her with wide eyes.

“Thank you for coming,” John gave her a quick hug, and walked back to the chair he’d been sitting in.

“No problem,” she grinned. “And this must be the famous Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume?”

Sherlock extended his right arm to shake her hand.

“Pleasure,” he smiled.

“What was it that you wanted to talk about?” she asked, watching them curiously.

“Do you know the name of the person who gave us the bank lady job?” John watched as she pondered over it. She pulled out her phone.

“Yeah, I have it, why?”

“We think he might be a serial killer,” Sherlock explained.

“Oh, and you want his name so you can catch him?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, what are you willing to pay for it?”

Sherlock met John’s eyes before looking back at her.

“A job in Scotland Yard,” he smiled. Owl stared at him before looking down at her phone again.

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Of course, it is,” Sherlock grinned. “John, give me my phone.”

John handed it to him and waited for him to send a text.

“That should do it,” the detective put down the device. “Now, all we have to do is wait for about ten minutes, and we should be good.”

They sat in silence until the door to the room slammed open to reveal a stressed looking Lestrade.

“Sherlock!” he shouted. When he noticed the woman standing with folded wings at the end of the bed, he groaned exasperatedly. “Oh, come on, not again.”

A few seconds later, Mycroft walked through the door.

“Evening, brother mine,” he raised an eyebrow at his younger brother. “I got your text.”

“Yes, yes, now, I need you to meet Owl,” Sherlock gestured to Owl who’d started to back away towards the window. “I think she’d be a great addition to your team, Lestrade.”

“What?” Lestrade frowned, looking from Sherlock to Owl and back again.

“She’s a skilled sniper, she knows a lot about assassination, and I’m sure she could be useful as a more silent option to capture people.”

Mycroft watched his brother carefully. He almost squinted at him.

“She’s an assassin, Sherlock.”

“That’s why she’s perfect for the job!” Sherlock grinned. Lestrade seemed to think it over.

“He isn’t wrong,” he looked at Mycroft. The older Holmes brother sighed and leaned on his umbrella.

“Fine, I’ll help. She needs a new name,” he looked at Owl who stared at them, astonished by what was happening.

“She’ll think about it until this case is over. We need her to help catch those serial killers,” John piped up. Sherlock nodded.

“We’ve got the name on one of them, which I believe the Yard would be able to catch themselves. John and Owl will stalk out the rest of the city, waiting for the other two to strike,” he explained the plan and Lestrade looked almost hopeful for once.

“Sounds like a plan,” he grinned before turning to Owl, who almost looked like someone had slapped her right across the face. “Are you okay with it, miss?”

Owl nodded and hesitated for a second before walking over to him, shaking his hand.

“Great! Could you send me that name?” Lestrade fished his phone out of his pocket and gave her his number.

“Yeah, sure,” she was ecstatic as she quickly sent him the name. “Thank you so much for the job. I can’t really believe it, you know? I won’t disappoint you. I promise!”

“Nice, now you can all leave,” Sherlock interrupted the moment, clutching his head in his hands. “I’ve got an awful headache, so if you could please just get out, I’d be incredibly thankful.”

John chuckled beside him. Mycroft mumbled something inaudible under his breath, returning out into the hallway followed by Lestrade. Owl was still standing motionless in the room. She looked over at the man in the bed.

“Are you always like that?” she asked and looked to John for confirmation. John shrugged and winked at her.

“Pretty much,” he smiled, and felt a weak punch in his arm. He glanced over at Sherlock who glared at him. “You are,” he laughed as the detective rolled his eyes.

“I’ll leave you to it,” the woman giggled and walked towards the window.

“I’ll call you about the details in the morning,” John said as she perched on the window sill. She gave him a thumbs up before jumping out into the night. John walked over and closed the window after her.

When he came back to the bed, Sherlock had started to drift off.

“You’re sleepy,” John leaned over him and gave him a kiss on the forehead. Sherlock frowned at him.

“You missed,” he whispered. John stared at him, confused until he finally understood what he meant. He smirked and held the man’s head in his hands before leaning down.

“Maybe I wasn’t finished?” he kissed Sherlock’s nose. The detective made an annoyed sound. John ignored him, continuing to kiss everywhere else other than his mouth.

“Quit it,” Sherlock pouted, earning him another nose kiss.

“You love it,” John placed their foreheads together and gazed lovingly into the detective’s blue eyes. Sherlock blinked a few times at the intense stare of his best friend. “Or was it something else you wanted me to do?”

Sherlock let his gaze fall towards the other man’s lips before looking back. John laughed.

“I see,” he smiled sweetly and pulled back, letting go of Sherlock’s head. “You want one of those.”

Sherlock nodded flustered.

John wetted his lips with his tongue before giving the detective a real kiss. He’d missed the feeling of Sherlocks lips against his own. The detective responded immediately and locked one of his hands in John’s hair, pulling him closer. John ended up on top of him on the bed, trying not to fall off the edge. He tried his best not to squish the detective more than necessary. Sherlock had other plans, however, as he snuck an arm around John’s waist and held him tight.

They parted when they both were out of air, John letting his head rest over Sherlock’s beating heart. It was relaxing to hear it after what had happened earlier, and he felt himself drifting off.

“Seems like I’m not the only one who needs some sleep?” John smiled at the low rumble of Sherlock’s voice.

“You need it more than me,” he said and lifted his head to look into the detective’s hooded eyes. He gave him a quick peck on his chin before putting his head down again. Sherlock fell silent.

“Stay with me?” he whispered into John’s hair.

“Always,” John mumbled before closing his eyes, continuing to listen to the heartbeat of his best friend.  


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this, and we're done!

A couple of days had passed, and Sherlock was losing his mind. He’d been allowed to go back home to Baker Street, but because of the case, John was either out roaming the streets, or asleep, which meant they never really saw each other. The assassin didn’t seem to mind, probably too caught up in the case to do anything else, and Sherlock was stuck in the flat. He’d tried to sneak out once, but John had found out and let him hear it. Sherlock knew he was just worried, but he really wanted to help. He’d be useless sitting at home doing nothing.

Then came the second problem. John was always out at night, expecting Sherlock to sleep while he was gone, something that didn’t work. He’d tried his best, but he always ended up sitting on the couch, terrified for something to happen to his best friend. Boyfriend? Was that what they were now?

Sherlock sighed and curled up further on the couch, playing with John’s feather. It was one of the darker ones from the top of the wing. It was fascinating how the colour spread from really dark, almost black, brown and turned into a light golden the closer to the edge it got. It was beautiful.

He sighed and glanced out the window. The sun rose slowly over the horizon, and he was certain John would be home any moment. He wondered if he should go back to the bedroom and tell him he’d been sleeping. The moment the thought crossed his mind there was a thump against the window and John climbed through it. He seemed annoyed and stressed as he folded his wings against his back and closed the window behind him. When he spotted Sherlock, he looked even more displeased.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he placed his hands on his hips. Sherlock continued to watch the feather in his hands.

“I couldn’t,” the detective heard John step closer to him. He watched as the assassin plucked the feather out of his hands and placed it on the coffee table.

“Why?”

“I think you know why.”

“Humour me,” John sat down beside him, pulling him down so his head rested in his lap.

“I want to help with the case,” Sherlock closed his eyes when he felt a hand run through his hair.

“And?” he could almost hear John smirk.

“And I’m worried something’s going to happen if I’m not there.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” John chuckled and patted Sherlock’s chest. “You think you’d be able to sleep, now, then?”

Sherlock sighed and squinted at him.

“If you could stop talking, that would help,” he shut his eyes again. John was having none of it, however.

“I didn’t mean on me,” he frowned. “I need sleep, too, you know. I’ve been out all night hunting that serial killer of yours.”

A small tap on the doorframe made them both look up. Owl grinned at them as she walked into the room.

“Am I disturbing something?” she tilted her head pulling her wings behind her on the floor.

“No, it’s fine. We were just about to go to bed,” John said quickly and pushed Sherlock out of his lap, ignoring the grumble from the detective. “Anything you wanted to talk to us about?”

“Yeah, I found something of yours, actually,” Owl pulled out something from her pocket and threw it to John. He caught it with one hand and smiled brightly when he recognised what it was.

“Oh my God, are these what I think they are?” he asked excitedly.

“Yeah, I found them with some of your old things in the attic at the farm. You know the things you gave to me before you joined the army?” Owl explained. “I thought you missed them.”

“What is it?” Sherlock tried to see the item, but John turned away before he could. “John, I want to see.”

“One second, Sherlock,” John put them on and turned so the detective could see. They were a pair of vintage steam punk goggles. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, clearly not amused. “I stole them on a job, once,” John giggled and shoved the goggles up to his forehead. “I was getting frustrated that I couldn’t see much when I dove, so I tried to find something to shield my eyes from the wind. I broke into a vintage shop and found these. I used them all the time.”

“Dove?” Sherlock frowned.

“Yeah, you should have seen him,” Owl laughed. “He could dive at a speed of 120 mph, but he got totally blinded by the wind, so he got those goggles.”

“You can dive 120 mph, and you didn’t tell me?” Sherlock glared at John who winked at him.

“I don’t know if I can anymore,” he said and took the goggles off. He let them down on the table beside the feather. “Thanks for bringing them. I appreciate it.”

“No worries. You need them more than I do, anyways,” Owl yawned. “Okay, I need to get going. I’ll see you tonight, John?”

“Yeah, see you later,” John waved at her as she walked out of the flat before turning to face Sherlock. “Now, _you_ need to get to bed.”

“Not without you,” the detective argued making John sigh.

“Yes, fine,” he pulled Sherlock up from the couch and dragged him through the kitchen towards his bedroom. This was the first time they shared a bed. The thought made the detective feel oddly shy for once. He watched as John pulled his black jumper over his head and face plant into the pillows.

“Come on, I’m tired,” John mumbled into the sheets. “I can hear you thinking.”

Sherlock blushed and climbed in beside him. John crawled under the duvet, rolling over until he was laying on his stomach with his head resting on Sherlock’s chest.  

“I do have two pillows, you know?” Sherlock couldn’t help the pull on his lips when the assassin pulled him tighter.

“You’re better,” he mumbled sleepily and nuzzled closer. Sherlock couldn’t really believe that given his bony appearance, but he let it go, listening as John fell asleep. The soft snores escaping his friend made his heart warm. It was nice to be this close to John. Soon, he was drifting off, too.

 

He woke up later in the day. The sun was on its way down again, and he guessed John had left already. He almost jumped when he felt a soft breath ghost over his ear. John was still in the bed, sound asleep. Sherlock tried his best to get out without waking him. He snuck over to his closet and pulled out some new clothes, soundlessly moving towards the door when he heard John stir.

“Sherlock?” A soft mumble came from the bed. Sherlock froze, watching the other man carefully, hoping he’d go back to sleep. He made a decision, quickly bending over to place a kiss on John’s cheek.

“Go back to sleep, I’ll be back in a second,” he lied. John was snoring again moments later, and he let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He walked out and got into his clothes, grabbing his coat and made his way out into the street. It was still early spring, making the evening cold. He pulled his coat closer around himself, cursing his low fat-level. He got a cab and made his way over to the last place one of the serial killers had been. He hoped he’d be able to find some sort of clue to figure out where he’d probably strike next.

Sherlock leapt out of the cab the moment it stopped, paying the chauffeur way too much before striding into the dark alley. He looked around, trying to find anything of importance. His phone vibrated indicating a text. Lestrade was giving him a heads-up that one of the people they were stalking had left his house, and that everyone was to keep their eyes open. Sherlock deleted it and placed his phone back in his pocket.

He continued to walk through the narrow alley. It was getting considerably more difficult to see in the dim light.

His phone vibrated again. This time it was John asking him where he was. He sighed and turned the device off. He couldn’t afford any distractions. He continued forward, further into the dark, wondering if he should use the phone as a flashlight. He didn’t notice the man behind him before it was too late.

A hand grabbed him by his hair and slammed his head into the brick wall. Sherlock blacked out for a few seconds, waking up to a knife pressed against his throat. The man laughed, making Sherlock swallow nervously as the blade made a small cut in his skin.

“What do we have here?” he snickered and eased off the pressure on the knife. “The great Sherlock Holmes out in the streets by himself? Where’s that little assassin friend of yours? Oh, he was arrested, isn’t that right? What a shame. I would love to see his face when he hears about your death.”

Sherlock almost wanted to tell him that John was out again, but he decided against it. The man shifted his hold on the knife, pointing it down at his chest. He let the edge of it rest against his collar bone before slowly running it down cutting open the detective’s skin. Sherlock had to stop himself from moving. He was too weak to do anything. He could only hope someone would find them.

“Not so tough when no one’s protecting you,” the man lifted the knife up to his left cheekbone. “Such sharp cheekbones. Would be a shame if I- Oops,” the blade cut deep, making warm blood run down his cheek. Sherlock shut his eyes against the sting. “And what an eye colour, you have, Mr. Holmes,” the man giggled. Dread crept up the detective’s spine. He began to thrash violently, trying to get away from his abuser. “Relax, I only want one of them. Maybe I’ll send it to your friend?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but watch as the blade came closer to his eye. He felt like an idiot for leaving the flat. He should at least have told John where he was, just so he might’ve had a chance to find him. But no one was coming. He regretted not giving John a proper kiss before he left.

That’s when a huge shadow came flying towards them. The serial killer didn’t know what happened before he was laying on his back with a man standing on his chest. Two huge wings straightened out behind him and a pair of vintage steam punk goggles covered his eyes. The man on the ground started to gulp up blood before passing out.

“John?” Sherlock watched the wings relax and curl up against the assassin’s back. John didn’t look at him, just continued to stare down at the unconscious man beneath him. His shoulders were tense, he was breathing hard and his hands were fists against his thighs.

“Shut up,” he said sharply, finally stepping off the guy. He pushed the goggles up to his forehead before checking the gun strapped to his thigh. “Why the hell don’t you ever listen to me, huh?” he spun around to face Sherlock. “I’m okay with a lot of your ideas, but this? Why the _hell_ did you do it? Every time I ask you not to do something, you do it anyway. It’s like you don’t care if you’re in danger! What the hell do you have to lose, anyway, right? Well, I’m going to tell you something, smart ass. I don’t want to lose _you_. And if you continue like this, I’ll leave you again. I can’t watch you kill yourself,” John paced a few steps back and forth before stopping in front of Sherlock. The detective tried his best to sit up, his head aching after being slammed against the wall. “I didn’t know what to do when I woke up and found out you’d left,” John continued. “You could at least have told me where you were going.”

Sherlock tried to answer when John lifted a hand to stop him. He sighed and pulled up his phone, probably sending a text to Lestrade about finding one of the serial killers. The assassin put the phone back again and was about to say something more when he grabbed his gun and spun around. Sherlock hadn’t noticed the man waking up and pulling out a gun. John wasn’t able to fire quickly enough. The serial killer pulled the trigger, hitting John as the assassin fired. The bullet hit the man right between his eyes, killing him instantly. John staggered backwards before leaning heavily against the wall. He slid down slowly and dropped his gun to the ground. He was breathing heavily, squeezing his eyes shut.

“John!” Sherlock cried and crawled over to him. “No, no, no, don’t you dare die on me, now. I just got you back!”

John chuckled weakly placing a hand against the detective’s cheek. His breath rattled in his chest. Sherlock tried to figure out where the bullet had hit, but he couldn’t see anything.

“It’s going to be okay, Sherlock,” John choked out. The detective felt completely helpless as he tried to find out where the wound was.

“Tell me what to do,” Sherlock continued his frantic search. “I don’t know what to do, John, please, just don’t you leave me again, just tell me how to save you.”

John smiled sadly, grabbing Sherlock’s head and pulling him in for a gentle kiss. Sherlock started to sob against his lips. They pulled away from each other when they heard footsteps running towards them form the other end of the alley.

“Jesus, John,” Owl said as she fell down to her knees pulling out a small first-aid kit from a small pouch on her belt. “Where were you hit?” she pushed Sherlock away from John. John pointed at the side of his chest. Owl quickly pulled up his jumper and saw the small bullet wound. She opened her first-aid kit and pulled out a small plastic bag. She tore it open and got out a small transparent square. “Sherlock, call an ambulance,” she instructed as she placed the square on top of the hole. John’s breathing steadied out, turning closer to normal. She made him lean forward so she could check him for any exit wounds, and when she found none, she pulled down the jumper again to shield him from the cold air as much as she could.

Sherlock called the ambulance as soon as his phone was on, and told them what had happened. He met John’s eyes and felt himself calm down slightly. He watched as Owl sat down beside her old partner, motioning for Sherlock to sit down on his other side. The detective settled against John, grabbing his hand and holding it firmly.

“It’s just a punctured lung, Sherlock,” John placed his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You got shot,” Sherlock growled.

“And you almost got sliced open, so I guess we’re even,” John squeezed his hand. Sherlock sighed and touched his cheekbone carefully. It was deep, but he’d be fine.

They sat in silence as they waited for the ambulance to get there.

“I think I figured out what my name could be,” Owl said after a few minutes. The two men glanced at her. “I think I want to be called Molly,” she paused. “Molly Hooper.”

“It fits you,” Sherlock smiled at her. “I’ll tell my brother later,” he reached out his right hand towards her. She grabbed it. “Nice to meet you, Molly.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” she giggled. They could hear the sirens get closer. Molly got up and started to walk towards the street. “I’ll just wait for them so they don’t go too far.”

Sherlock nodded at her before turning his attention back to John. The man had started to shiver slightly and was pulling his wings as close to him as he could, just to try to keep himself warm. Sherlock noticed how blue he was because of the lack of oxygen.

“John?” he asked. John didn’t respond, just curled up tighter against him. “The ambulance is almost here. We just need to wait a little bit longer.” John started to breathe harder again. Sherlock felt the fear coming back to him. The relief he felt when the paramedics came running down the alley almost made him want to start sobbing again, but he needed to focus. He helped them get John on the stretcher, which was a bit difficult with the wings and all, but they were able to get him on in the end. They lifted him into the ambulance and drove away, leaving Sherlock and Molly alone.

“I can wait for Lestrade, if you want to go to the hospital,” Molly smiled and watched as Sherlock hailed a cab and almost threw himself into it the moment it stopped. He needed John. He couldn’t live without him.

John was his life.  

 

 

(Okay, I just really wanted to draw John with those goggles, so here you go, I hope you enjoy it XD) 

 


	10. Epilogue

He could hear it in the distance. Nothing much, just a tiny whisper of… something. He couldn’t place it, nor understand it. It just was. Nothing made sense. Darkness surrounded him, but somehow the comfort of it was breath-taking. He wanted to fear it, but he couldn’t. It cuddled close to him, whispering, singing softly into his ear. It told him to wake up. To come back.

The darkness continued to touch him gingerly, stroking his hair, caressing his skin, tickling his lips, urging him to wake up. Just for him. One more miracle. Don’t leave him. Please.

A memory broke through the blackness. Pain like nothing else. He’d felt it before, once, but this time he was suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. He needed to breathe. He needed oxygen, but his lungs wouldn’t let him have it. They wouldn’t cooperate. He could try as much as he wanted to, but they wouldn’t expand. The pressure in his chest wouldn’t stop. He needed it to stop so he could inhale.

Moving didn’t work. Nothing worked. He was stuck in the darkness, and now he wanted nothing more than to get out of there. To wake up. Follow the whisper as it left him there to die. Left him there alone. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to go home. Home to his normal life. He couldn’t remember what his life was like.

Had he been someone important? Had he done something to make an imprint on the world? He didn’t know. He knew nothing in this strange place. The darkness was his only comfort here. He had no idea if anything else existed. Had he been here for long? Maybe this was his home?

The distance called for him again. It sounded so wounded and scared. He felt like he should find it. Comfort it, and make it happy. Yes, that’s what he needed to do. Save it. He needed to save it and take it home and never hear the extreme sorrow it whispered again. He had no choice in the matter. His entire soul longed for the sound of excitement and happiness. Not this painful whimper floating from every direction. He should go to it. Keep it in sight, never leaving it again.

A spike of pain and drowsiness pulled at him. Sickness and aching pushed him upwards. The pressure in his chest intensified the closer he got to the surface. For a moment, he almost didn’t want to break the surface. He wanted the calmness and sweetness of the darkness, but then he’d never find out who the whisper belonged to. He needed to find out. His curiosity dragged his being further.

White. White ceiling, white walls, white sheet, black curls. He blinked slowly, taking in his surroundings. Dizziness and exhaustion made it difficult to think straight. He let his eyes adjust to the dim light in the small hospital room. The night sky outside the window gleamed with stars. He missed flying among the stars. Their beauty alone could make his eyes shine with awe and wonder. They were almost as beautiful as the man sitting in the red armchair beside his bed. They didn’t stand a chance against the soft curls on his head, or his striking intelligent eyes, or his sharp cheek bones. They didn’t shine as bright as the man he loved more than anything. The man he wouldn’t hesitate to protect at all costs.

Sherlock was sitting with his knees up under his chin, glazed eyes staring into the shadows outside the window. Inaudible words rolled off his lips every now and then. He seemed dazed and drained, almost fragile where he sat.

John tried to listen to what he was saying. It wasn’t impossible, and what he heard made him want to pull the man towards him, never letting him go again. He kept repeating the same words over and over like a prayer.

“My fault,” the detective whispered, his eyes widening and shimmering brighter than the stars. A small tear made its way down his cheek and got caught in the corner of his mouth. “Always my fault,” his voice broke.

“I’m not going to argue with you on that,” John croaked out through his dry throat. Sherlock spun around in the chair. When he registered that John was awake, he tumbled out of it and more or less crawled up to his side like a shameful dog. He grabbed John’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “Did you miss me?”

“I’m sorry John,” Sherlock came closer to him. “I was an imbecile. I shouldn’t have left the flat. If I had just listened to you, you wouldn’t have been shot, and I couldn’t think about losing you, because… you are my entire life, and without you, I wouldn’t have a reason to exist,” he placed his hand carefully on John’s cheek. “I love you so much, John.”

“I must really have been out of it to make you this worried,” John sighed before realising his mistake. Sherlock stared at him, his expression pained, before pulling away. John reached out and took a hold of his wrist. “And,” he continued as he watched the detective carefully. “It’s really sweet of you. I was gone for a while, wasn’t I?” Sherlock nodded, looking down at John’s hand. John dragged him closer and touched his cheek gently. “I love you too, Sherlock Holmes. With all my heart.”

“This got really sappy, didn’t it?” Sherlock mumbled and smiled. John laughed but it ended up in a coughing fit, making Sherlock grab a white plastic cup filled with water on the bedside table. He lifted it up to John’s lips so he could drink it. John guessed it had been standing there for quite some time given the temperature. It still helped a lot, though.

“I like it,” he grinned as Sherlock put down the cup. “There’s just one little thing, though.”

“And what would that be?”

“Kiss me?”

Sherlock leaned over him and kissed him on the forehead.

“Like that?” he smiled devilishly. John rolled his eyes.

“Is this payback?” he asked as Sherlock dipped down and pecked him on the nose.

“Maybe?” The detective brushed his lips over his cheek, making John shiver with anticipation. He closed his eyes as Sherlock’s tongue flickered over his parted lips. John stretched his neck to get a better angle, letting a hand slide into dark hair. The movement made his chest ache painfully and he let out a small hiss. Sherlock stopped immediately. “Are you okay?”

“I have a tube in my chest,” John said dryly, gesturing to the tube sticking out of his chest near his armpit. Sherlock bit his lip and John sighed. “Did we get the serial killers, by the way? How long have I been out?”

“Lestrade and the Yard got the one we had a name on, and Owl got the last guy. You've been asleep for a couple of days. The bulled caused some severe internal bleeding, and your chest cavity had started filling with blood. They almost lost you… _I_ almost lost you,” Sherlock mumbled the last part. John grabbed his hand and kissed his palm.

“But you didn’t,” he muttered. “I’m never going to leave you, Sherlock. Not if I can help it. Never again.”

Sherlock leaned down carefully, kissing him gently on the lips. John wanted to pull him closer, but the chest tube got increasingly more annoying every time he tried to do anything. Sherlock paused for a second, like he remembered something, before leaning down to John’s ear.

“Marry me?” he whispered making John furrow his brow.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Sherlock pulled back enough to look John’ in the eye. The assassin stared at him, mouth agape, shock and disbelief playing on his features. Sherlock didn’t even blink. He waited for the response patiently, obviously knowing the question would surprise him.

“We’ve been together for five days,” John said slowly, frowning slightly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“And we’ve lived together for five, almost six years. People have clearly stated that they’ve thought we were a couple from the start, making marriage the obvious next step. It would be beneficial if one of us ends up in the hospital.”

“Is this just because you didn’t get to come with me in the ambulance?” John frowned at the detective. Sherlock shook his head quickly.

“No, course not. I’m just… I would really like to marry you, John. We can even have a ceremony, if you’d like, even though it’s just traditional nonsense and a waste of money,” he rambled out making John sigh.

“Sherlock, you’re not seriously proposing to me, are you?” John stared at the man leaning over him. Sherlock pulled something out of his pocket.

“I’ve been thinking about it since I got home from the hospital after my overdose,” he said and lowered himself to one knee, making John gasp when he discovered the small black box in Sherlock’s hand. The detective opened it, revealing a gorgeous silver ring. John covered his mouth with his hand. His world seemed to stop around him as his heart started to beat faster. “When you got shot, I understood just how much you mean to me, and when they told me you’d pull through, I went out an bought this. So, John Hamish Watson, will you make me the happiest man in the world and marry me?”

John couldn’t speak. His heart swelled in his chest and he knew he would never be able to say no to this incredible man kneeling in front of him. He nodded slowly, making Sherlock grin. The detective got on his feet, grabbed John’s hand and slid the glimmering metal onto his finger. John sat up, trying his best not to wince from his sore chest, and pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. He could feel Sherlock’s fingers run through the feathers on his wings. They’d been pressed down into the mattress for far too long, making them ache. The touch had a wonderful relaxing effect. He sighed with contentment into Sherlock’s shoulder. He could get used to this.

Sherlock pulled away and placed his hand under John’s chin, tilting his head before kissing him sweetly.

He could get used to this, indeed.

 

\---

A man stood on top of a building, gazing out above London. The wind played with his short hair. He closed his eyes and felt a tug on his back. He smiled to himself as he stretched out his wings. The black feathers spread and caught in the wind. If he just leant forward a few inches, he’d be carried up into the night sky.

“Jim?” a voice called. Jim grinned and turned to look at the person coming up behind him. He folded his wings quickly, stepping off the edge.

“Yes, Seb?” he asked, keeping his voice sweet. Sebastian went up to him and showed him a picture on his phone.

“They’re in London,” he informed as Jim peered at the small screen. It showed a man with the wings of a red-tailed hawk carrying a scrawny-looking man into a hospital.

“Great!” Jim exclaimed. “Do you have the shoes?”

“They’re in the car.”

“Perfect. Let’s get this game started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's the end of that!   
> I hope you enjoyed it :D

**Author's Note:**

> You made it through the first chapter? Wow, I would love to hear your thoughts!  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
